


don't want to be a footnote

by scarredsodeep



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Angst, Contrived situations, Convoluted Lies, Craigslist, Fake Dating, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff, Foster Care, Found Family, Humor, Kid Fic, Law Firm AU, Legal Drama, M/M, Meet the Family, Oral Sex, Rent-a-Fam, Thanksgiving Dinner, ecoterrorism, i guess, sex as medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22573507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: When Patrick hired a stranger on Craigslist to pretend to be his husband at a work function, he had no idea it would get so far out of hand. But Pete and Bronx are more than he bargained for, his rival attorney Joe is determined to catch him in his lie, and his new client may or may not be an actual domestic terrorist. The only thing that could possibly make matters worse is if heactually develops feelings...
Relationships: Mikey Way/Pete Wentz, Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 150
Kudos: 172





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to the long-awaited rent-a-fam law firm AU! This is happening because a long time ago I watched The Good Wife and thought Cary looked a lot like an alterna-Patrick, and fake dating is great, and we all need some cringing and and character frustration and happiness in this bleak new decade. Look out for updates roughly twice a month! [Plus, existentialism jams about how bad it feels to embody the hollow shell of capitalistic values and how love, maybe, feels different.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LT4yacMwKS4sMsJCIDrJM)

* * *

__

* * *

_I'm all talk with a thorn in my side_   
_I've got a real big heart_   
_That I'm willing to hide_   
_You ask me what I want from life_   
_I said to make a lot of money_   
_And feel dead inside_

* * *

Frankly, Patrick is pretty fucking pissed that there are consequences to his actions. 

He’s been the highest-grossing, hardest-working junior partner at this firm for the last three _years_ ; his stats for favorable settlements wouldn’t be out of place in the MLB Hall of Fame. No one puts in longer hours than him. No one takes more work home. No one brings in more new business or billable hours. He is, _frankly_ , the most effective lawyer under 40 in this entire _city_ —and he’s not prepared to throw away his entire reputation based on one stupid lie.

People feel more comfortable with you if you can show you’re more than your work. If you have hobbies, a family. They look at you less like you’re a shark and more like someone they can open up to, be fully honest with. They think, _this is a family man. He’ll understand me._ Other perks: easy, non-awkward deferral of unwanted sexual advances by your boss that doesn’t hurt her feelings _or_ your promotability. _Sorry, my marriage really is one of those happy ones you read about in storybooks._ No one expects you to come to after-hours office functions, birthdays or team-building or Christmas parties, if you tell them you have a young kid. The whole family thing, it makes you look softer, warmer, more ethical all around. And it lowers everyone’s standards for your personal grooming—suddenly you’re heroic in an off-the-rack suit as long as there aren’t Cheerios spilling out the pockets! Listen, Patrick didn’t make the rules. That’s just how it is. And these are all things that work to his advantage. (Except for the grooming piece. Patrick would never compromise the professionalism of his appearance.)

The only problem is, Patrick _isn’t_ actually more than his work. He is entirely, 100%, _exactly_ his work. No more and, importantly, no less. That’s why he’s so fucking good at it. That’s why he made junior partner three years out of law school. Because the Chicago judicial system runs on sharks, and he is one. Of course he doesn’t have a goddamn family. When the fuck was he supposed to have time for that?

Oh, but. He did _say_ he did. A little white lie told eight years ago— _sorry, Bebe, I’m seeing someone, normally I’d be totally into a heterosexual liaison with you but it’s getting pretty serious_ —well, it saved his ass as an intern; it kept him around as an associate; it saw him promoted to junior partner.

It’s just—to keep Bebe at bay over the long term, the relationship had to stay happy, healthy, thriving. The lie had to advance in a convincing manner, didn’t it? So Patrick’s fake boyfriend became a fake fiancé became a fake husband, and then that time three years ago when he was messed up about that child murder case and he had to stop taking overtime and go to therapy for a few months or else _lose his fucking sanity_ , his asshole coworker Joe Trohman said all snarky, ‘Golden Boy’s finally losing his edge,’ and Patrick just blurted out, ‘I can’t work nights for a while because my husband and I just adopted a baby’—anyway, ever since then he’s had a fake kid too.

It wasn’t even his _idea_ to use it to build rapport with judges, to charm the DA, to get clients to open up to him, to soften his image and make other people feel easier around him. That was all Bebe. “Patrick’s a married man now,” she said to a judge, when Patrick got back from a week of drinking alone in South America that he pretended was a honeymoon. And the judge, who had never much cared for him, chatted with him so pleasantly and for so long that they ended up grabbing lunch together after court. That judge was significantly easier for Patrick to deal with, after that. So Patrick started talking more and more about his husband, his kid. It has benefits. He won’t lie. It’s been a good gig.

And he would have gotten away with it, too, if named partner, board president, sexual harasser, and all around boss-of-him Bebe Rexha hadn’t declared a big old bring-your-family-to-work luncheon for the shareholders, associates, partners, clients, and prospective accounts. Patrick tried to hedge out of it, of course—he’s not insane, that’s the whole reason he invented his fake son, to keep from going insane and dodge social obligations—but Bebe had come by his shitty windowless office personally.

“There’s going to be an upstairs office for the partner or associate with the cutest kid at this luncheon,” she says. She looks around Patrick’s dingy office with obvious disdain. “We’re trying to rehabilitate the firm’s image, you know—we’ve gotten this reputation for ruthlessness and putting high-profile killers back on the streets—and PR says it’s keeping away big clients, organizations that don’t want their names associated with us, and big ticket, image-conscious family law clients. I mean it, Stump—the cuteness of your kid could get us celebrity divorces. So it had better be _cute_. I want to see that munchkin’s smile plastered all over an office upstairs.”

It’s always difficult to tell whether aggressive, everything-is-a-category-5-federal-state-of-emergency Bebe’s being serious. Her threats and promises both have a rather sinister pattern of coming true.

“I don’t know if they’ll be able to make it,” Patrick says, trying to hide his wince with a smile. “My son’s got enrichment classes, you know. Early childhood development is, uh, the key to a successful future.” He really, really wants one of those offices. The senior partners are exponentially more likely to give you interesting cases if they don’t have to walk down a flight of stairs to do so. Stairs = scutwork. It’s an ancient and honorable equation. If Patrick wants to become a named partner before fucking Trohman, he _needs_ that office. Also—imagine seeing daylight. Imagine looking out over _the Chicago skyline_. Oh yes. He wants it.

Bebe’s face is an iron mask. “Did you hear a word of what I just said? You want to talk about futures? The future of Rexha, Saporta, and Hoppus _depends_ on this luncheon’s success. You do want to be part of _that_ future, Patrick?”

Patrick, helpless, can only nod. He’s a good lawyer, really a very good lawyer. But he couldn’t stand up to this woman if his life depended on it. She’s just erratic and competitive enough that she really would fire him for something like this, his value to the firm be damned.

Bebe smiles, slow and vicious. The kind of smile an antelope sees on the face of a lion just before it never sees anything ever again. “Then find a way to get your adorable little family here,” she says through her unnaturally sharp teeth.

So anyway, now Patrick is on Craigslist, trying to hire a fake family. And he’s pretty fucking pissed.

Patrick meets his fake husband for the first time in a throng of coworkers and their genetic scions. He looks nothing like someone Patrick could credibly be married to. He’s wearing the uniform of a web developer and/or Seattle stay-at-home-dad: scruffy beard, unruly hair under a slouchy beanie, flannel shirt, Starbucks cup, actual fucking moccasins, and a tiny blond whirling dervish with sticky hands at his side.

Worst of all is that none of this prevents Patrick from noticing that he’s extremely fucking hot.

_we just walked in_ , says the text on Patrick’s phone. It is not even necessary for this guy to identify himself: he looks _exactly_ like the kind of person who’d answer a ‘pretend to be my family for a work lunch because I’m far too committed to this lie’ ad on Craigslist. Patrick meets them at the elevator, basically vibrating with anxiety, and ushers them into a quiet side hallway before any of his coworkers spot them. Possibly they should have met in the downstairs lobby to get their stories straight. Possibly Patrick should have done a lot of things differently before his life took him to this particular moment.

“Peter, right?” Patrick says. He offers an awkward handshake. Pete half-smiles at it, like it’s some novel gesture he’s never encountered in the wild before.

“Pete, actually,” says Beard Scruff, because of course. “And this is Bronx. And you must be Patrick. Should we, like, hug? Like married people?”

Patrick’s brain shorts out for a second. Oh, god. He didn’t think about having to actually _touch_ these people. There is so much about this Patrick didn’t think through. Fuck, he hopes this kid is old enough to be out of diapers.

“Umm,” says Patrick. Before he can decide, the moppet with the big blond hair announces, “I like hugs!” and wraps himself around Patrick’s leg.

“He’s friendly,” Pete says unnecessarily. He sounds proud about having a child prone to hugging random strangers.

Patrick is generally unsure about what to do with children. With extreme awkwardness, he peels the child off himself and squats down. “Hey, buddy,” he says. And like a genius, he also offers the small child his hand to shake, you know, since it went so well the first time. “I’m your dad’s friend Patrick.” He feels like an idiot. He didn’t plan on feeling quite so keenly like an idiot. He actually thought he was being quite clever in this situation. That feels very long ago now. This is a real, living, whole human child. How on earth is Patrick going to pretend it’s his _son_?

“Uh, how old is he?” Patrick asks Pete. The list of things he needs to know to pull this off is fucking preposterous. This question seems woefully inadequate, but he’s got to start somewhere.

Pete just juts his chin at Bronx, who answers with an open hand and the proud proclamation, “I am four! I go to school in the morning, an’ next year I go for _all day_.”

Patrick notes the strategy of redirecting questions he should already know the answer to to Bronx. He’s gonna need it. He stands up to grown-up height and is hit all over again with what it feels like to meet Pete’s whiskey-colored eyes. They’re of a height, so those eyes are _right there_. Like he hasn’t just had the wind knocked out of him, Patrick fumbles a gold wedding band out of his back pocket. It matches the one he’s been wearing every weekday since the origin of this lie—attention to detail is one of his strengths. “Here, uh—I got mine at a pawn shop a few years ago, and they were cheaper as a set, so… I guess this one is yours.”

Pete graciously does not comment on the higher order of sadness that leads someone to buy a fake wedding band at a pawn shop and proceed to wear it to work for _years_. Instead he flashes his left hand at Patrick in a mirror of Bronx’s gesture. “I brought my own,” he says. The band he’s wearing is a thick, creamy rose gold. It looks much nicer than Patrick’s. It looks too nice to be fake at all.

“Here’s hoping that’s the only time I have to propose,” Patrick jokes, putting the ring back in his pocket. Once again, he doesn’t really think about how fucking sad that sounds he hears it out loud, sees his words creasing Pete’s brow.

So he doesn’t have to think about himself anymore, Patrick focuses his attention on Bronx, who’s rifling through his little backpack for a toy. “So then—you’re actually married?” he asks.

Pete’s smile twists sour. He looks down, avoiding Patrick’s eyes by studying Bronx. Already they have so much in common. “Nah,” he says. “Not anymore.”

Now they’re both embarrassed. Patrick can no longer remember why he ever thought this particular scheme was a good idea. He needs to go stand in the empty office on the top floor, take in the lush furnishings and truly awe-inspiring view. He needs to remind himself what all this awkwardness is _for_. Eye on the prize, Stump. Eye on the prize.

Why did he ever think he’d be any better at a fake relationship than a real one?

“So are there any—ground rules here?” Patrick asks stupidly, just to have something to say. He regrets it immediately.

Pete, though, this scruffy hipster stranger, just grins. “No kissing on the mouth. And don’t fall in love with me,” he says. “Oh, and if you’re gonna make any _Pretty Woman_ jokes, I want to be Richard Gere.”

A surprised laugh bursts out of Patrick. Maybe it’s just because this is the first non-lawyer, non-client he’s had a conversation with all week, but he _likes_ Pete. Maybe this terrible plan won’t be the worst thing he’s ever come up with after all.

Without warning, Bronx puts an old-school Wolverine action figure into Patrick’s hand. “Let’s play the X-Men fight!” he announces. Of course Pete Portland would get vintage action figures for his kid, Patrick thinks. Or maybe instead of annoying hipster pretension, it’s the cutest possible scenario, and this toy used to be Pete’s.

Since when did Patrick think shit like that was cute?

“Hang on, if I’m Wolverine, you can’t be Magneto!” Patrick protests, seeing the toy the four-year-old is pulling out next.

“He’s gonna kick your ass,” Pete says, smiling. He claps his hand to Patrick’s shoulder. “C’mon, Patty. Don’t we have a party to get to?”

“Patty!” Bronx cries in echo. “Patty is my friend.” In a child’s mouth, it sounds closer to _Daddy_ than Patrick imagined. It’s not something he’s ever wanted to be called, and _especially_ not outside of select bedroom scenarios. He takes whatever he may or may not be feeling and sweeps it right the fuck under a mental rug.

And so they’re a family, or something that can hopefully pass for one. There’s a Wolverine toy in his hand, Bronx smashing a Magneto figure against it, and this beanie-wearing Urban Outfitters model at his side. There’s nothing he can do but lead them into the party.

*

Joe Trohman isn’t fooled by the email that says “family luncheon.” He knows what this is really about: it’s a dog and pony show for the senior partners. They want to see who fits through their hoops the prettiest, who charms the most prospective new accounts—who’s best at winning cases, racking up retainers, _and_ playing nice with others. It’s about how marketable they are. It’s not a luncheon, it’s a deli case.

Well, Joe is a good fucking lawyer. He’s prepared to be a good roast ham. He’s been looking forward to this, actually: he knows Patrick Stump, diversity hire coverboy, has been lying. That asshole doesn’t have a family. He once heard Patrick say, “Baby shampoo sure is—different than other shampoo” when someone asked him about the smell of his supposed newborn’s head. He once heard Patrick describe the difficulties of a gay marriage as “yeah, and whose turn is it to pick on board game night?” He once heard Patrick describe his marriage proposal as “you know, the whole riverboat and carriage thing” and his honeymoon as “uhh, very sexy.” Patrick Stump has never been in a relationship in his _life_ , Joe would stake his job on it. And today’s the day Joe finally gets to witness his humiliation.

Joe’s not usually a spiteful person. He’s not. But Stump has bested and backstabbed and benefitted from Joe’s billable hours one too many times, all too often by invoking this transparent lie about his adoring family that no one has ever seen a shred of evidentiary proof of. Stump isn’t just his competitor for this promotion, Stump is his _nemesis_. Joe will witness his downfall, and then he will be given the big upstairs office with the window. This is his design.

Then Patrick Stump struts into the luncheon like he owns the place, leading a cherub-faced blond kid by the hand with some handsome motherfucker trailing behind them.

Joe’s on him immediately. He’s in the middle of a very tiresome conversation with a senatorial staffer, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He drops the staffer, cuts through the conference room aggressively, and intercepts Patrick before he can go show off for Bebe or bamboozle prospective accounts with the big-eyed cuteness factory.

“What the fuck is this,” Joe says flatly, stopping in front of his nemesis.

Patrick looks as smug as he ever fucking does. His charcoal suit is ironed to impeccable crispness, his tie a deep and handsome emerald. Joe wants to choke him with it. “This is my family, Joe. So maybe watch the language.”

Joe knows he’s lying. He just doesn’t know how to prove it. He stares coldly at Patrick, trying to unclench his fists, until Patrick’s ersatz husband offers his hand to Joe and prompts, “So you must be the infamous Joe?”

Joe hates him, for the record. He’s so— _pretty_. How does a miserable bastard like Patrick Stump land such a handsome partner while good, virtuous Joe Trohman is doomed to swiping left on online dating apps forever?

“Depends on what you’ve heard,” he says through a tight smile. Good thing his job is lying under pressure: he’s pretty sure no one but Patrick can tell how unhappy he is right now. “I’m the brilliant good-looking one from Patrick’s stories? The hero who saves the day?”

“Well, whoever you are,” the guy laughs charmingly, “I’m Pete. Patrick’s husband.”

Joe decides the most antagonistic thing he can possibly do in this situation is flirt with Patrick’s supposed husband, so he puts his hand on Pete’s chest and leans in as he says, “You know, you’re sexier than he described you.”

Joe is gratified to see Patrick’s nostrils flare in annoyance. “I’m sure that means a lot coming from a heterosexual,” he mutters pissily. 

Joe has entirely forgotten to notice Pete’s response, he’s so focused on his rival, but his hand is still on the man’s chest when his boss (in a power suit with an important potential client in tow) marks them from across the conference room and heads towards them like a guided missile. He times it perfectly so she arrives just as he’s saying, “Patrick’s been holding out on us for years—I’ve never seen a picture of you _or_ your bundle of joy! Isn’t that so odd? Oh, Bebe! I was just saying how _odd_ it is that no pictures of Patrick’s family seem to exist. Don’t you think it’s odd?”

All Joe Trohman wants in life is a promotion, an office with a window, and to catch Patrick Stump in this egregious and humiliating lie about having a family. This desire hasn’t changed just because Patrick’s family is, _apparently,_ here in the flesh. But Pete ruins it. Grinning, he fishes a cell phone out of his back pocket and offers, “Well, I’ve got some pictures from our honeymoon that aren’t fit for public consumption. Should I show him, babe?”

Patrick does something Joe’s never seen him do before and turns two shades past magenta in a total-face blush. “Noooo!” he protests, grabbing the phone out of Pete’s hand and stuffing it into his jacket pocket. He turns his face into Pete’s shoulder and hides there, just for a moment, while he regains his composure. Pete brushes his lips lightly against Patrick’s exposed neck. It’s such a familiar, intimate gesture—for the first time Joe hesitates, questions his own instincts. Could they really be—married?

“Let’s just say we didn’t take any pictures on our honeymoon,” Patrick says when he emerges from Pete’s shoulder. He stays close, and his so-called husband slides an arm around him, pressing his hand against the small of Patrick’s back. 

“I like seeing your wicked side, Patrick,” Bebe teases, in the overly familiar manner that she uses to lure her employees into a false sense of security like any highly accomplished venomous snake. What she does next is really alarming: she bends at the knee, sticks her face in the kid’s face, and coos, “I can’t even believe this little munchkin! He looks just like you!” She sounds almost like someone who actually likes children. When she straightens up again, she pushes the prospective client towards Patrick. “Mr. Iero was just telling me all about his new baby. I bet you two have a lot in common.”

“Oh, yes. I definitely remember what having a new baby is like,” Patrick says, completely unconvincingly. Joe goes back to being highly skeptical of any and all claims of marriage and family. How does anyone believe his bullshit even for a minute? Whatever chemistry there is between him and Pete, Joe’s not falling for it. It’s a fake husband and a fake baby, and that’s that.

“I’m embarrassed to say it, but this is the first time I’m at a social event since Miles was born. We have 2-year-old twins, and adding him to the mix...” Mr. Iero shakes his dark head, adjusts the sleeves of his jacket in a way that draws attention to his hand tattoos. “Anyway, does this even count as a social event? Or is this work?”

They all laugh much harder than the joke warrants, because that’s what you do when you’re schmoozing up new business for the firm. When the exaggerated laughter dies down, Bebe springs what is clearly a trap she’s been planning since she thought of this luncheon in the first place. As if it’s just now occurring to her, she says, “You know, Rexha, Saporta, and Hoppus is all about family. What if you didn’t have to choose between quality time with your kids and doing good business? We can set you and Patrick up with a playdate: grab a drink, watch the kids play, enjoy some fatherhood solidarity, and get to know our firm and its services better. There’s no reason to limit ourselves to stuffy boardrooms and windowless offices, right?”

Somehow, Patrick smiles pleasantly while giving the overall psychic impression of a man choking. “Wow, what a suggestion!” He reaches down to ruffle Bronx’s hair, and the tiny human dodges him. “We’d love that.”

“Oh, that would actually be great. Finding childcare is an endless hellscape, am I right?”

“We’re lucky on that front,” Pete says. “I get to stay home with my bud and do my work during his school day.”

“Marry an attorney next time, I guess,” Iero jokes. “Can we do next week—I’ll have my admin assistant call yours?” Mr. Iero is grinning, all puppy-teeth and feeling like this firm understands his needs, probably. _Windowless office_ , Bebe said. Joe knows what’s happening here. She’s suggesting that if Patrick lands this account—some big pharmaceutical company Iero represents—the promotion is his. Goddamn it. Joe must _ruin him_.

“Looking forward to it already,” Patrick says, and only Joe notices he’s holding Pete’s hand so tight his knuckles are white.

Rather than the site of his triumph, this luncheon is turning into bitter defeat. Joe thinks all is lost when something wonderful finally happens: 

Patrick’s fake husband goes stone-still as the latest bad-haircut intern approaches. A few more steps and the intern’s plate falls out of his hand as he freezes. In open-mouthed horror, the intern squeaks out, “ _Pete_? What are you doing here?”

Joe’s head whips back and forth like he’s watching Serena Williams crush the US Open. He is full of malice and glee. “I—um—I’m here with my husband,” Pete stammers. He reaches out blindly for the shoulder of his son, grasping empty air twice before he finally makes contact with the four-year-old. “And Bronx. It’s—nice to see you, Mikey.”

“You have a _husband_?”

“Sure do,” Pete says, and he’s not as smooth as Patrick is, because he’s wincing very visibly. “And this is him right here.”

“I get _files_ for him,” says the intern.

Everyone else has gone still like a prey animal. The drama is thick in the air. Patrick has a cloud of panic hanging around him, and Joe thinks the display of weakness is delicious. _That’s_ why Patrick is so secretive about his beautiful too-good-to-be-true husband: he’s a fox in a henhouse, an unchecked _philanderer_. Maybe he’s a sex addict! Maybe there’s still a chance this sordid trainwreck can derail Patrick’s ascent to the upstairs office—nothing against Patrick, of course. But that’s _Joe’s_ office. He’ll make sure of it.

Innocent as a lamb, Joe asks, “So how do you two know each other?”

Even Bebe shoots him a glare for that one. Iero shifts his weight, obviously uncomfortable. Cheating spouses don’t really fit in with the family friendly bullshit the firm is trying to promote today.

“Bowling league,” says Patrick, too quickly, too loudly. It’s just maddeningly specific enough to sound true. “Pete meets all kinds of people bowling. Right, sweetheart?”

The eye contact between the husband and the intern is so sexual and tense it fucking crackles.

“Joe, over by the buffet is an old friend I really must introduce you to,” Bebe interrupts smoothly. She grabs his arm fingernail-first and steers him. “We’ll catch up with you later, Frank!” she tells Iero. “I’m sure Mr. and Mr. Stump will take good care of you.” 

And with that, she whisks him away. Joe and Patrick share one last, lingering glare, and then Joe puts his game face on, because he needs to show Bebe he can play nice with others _fast_ if he still wants a shot at that office.

*

After the miserable debacle that is the company luncheon finally ends, Patrick rides the elevator down to the lobby with Pete and Bronx. The best part of the whole ordeal, unexpectedly, was the solid twenty minutes Patrick spent crouching under a table with Pete’s son, eating mini-quiches and voicing the various X-Men and He-Man action figures that a Bronx-powered Wolverine cut to ribbons. _Ammamantium smash!_ Bronx kept yelling. Patrick can’t remember the last time he had as much fun at work.

“I actually had a pretty good time with you,” Pete tells him, eyes crinkling up with the warmth of his stupidly charming smile. 

“Except for Joe Trohman trying to ruin my life, yeah, that went better than hiring a family should have,” Patrick jokes back. “I hope this doesn’t cause you problems with that intern?”

“Oh, Mikey? My bowling buddy?” Pete laughs sheepishly. “Yeah, that situation was already a mess. This isn’t gonna help. Can’t believe he works here.”

“Well, good thing this was a one-off,” Patrick says. “I’m sure you can explain it to him and get off the hook. Ugh, and then he’ll know exactly how pathetic I am. That should give him some joy while he pulls files for me.”

Pete knocks his shoulder against Patrick’s. Patrick, who resumed a cool professional distance from Pete as soon as the elevator door closed on their fake union, is startled by the welcome, solid heat of Pete’s form. “Calm down, Stump,” he says. “I’m not gonna sell you out. Besides, what if you need the Wentz men again?”

Patrick feels a weird surge of gratitude. It makes him uncomfortable. “Not happening,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re an excellent Richard Gere. But this was totally the weirdest thing you’ve ever done, right? It’s—so much more sad than I imagined when I wrote that Craiglist ad. I never expected anyone to answer. No offense, but… I kind of wish you hadn’t.”

He keeps a smile on his face so Pete is less likely to detect the weird melancholy he’s feeling underneath. What he’s feeling underneath is: even for him, this is a new level of loneliness. Sure, there are plenty of loveless workaholics at the firm who don’t have families—who needs a romantic partner when your office decorating budget is sufficient to rent a Rothko from the Art Institute’s private collection? But somehow Patrick is the only miserable bastard hiring a sexy stay-at-home dad to pretend to love him. Even good old-fashioned, straightforward hiring a prostitute for companionship would be less sad than this: paying for the _appearance_ of companionship and not actually getting any.

And the _underneath_ feelings aren’t the only problem. The general dick-region feelings are a problem too. Patrick’s whole body tingles with the recency of Pete’s touch. He’s having a physical reaction to Pete’s handsomeness that suggests it’s been too long since he’s had _real_ intimate contact with another human being. Actually, uh, with all the late nights he works and the general stress from his job? Patrick’s having trouble recalling the last time he got any action that wasn’t his own hand.

They reach the bottom floor and the elevator door opens. Even though the luncheon’s over, Pete presses a quick kiss to Patrick’s cheek before he scoops Bronx up into his arms. “For whatever it’s worth?” Pete says. “This is only the third weirdest date I’ve been on. And I’m glad I answered your ad. Say bye, Bronx.” The little blond dervish waves over Pete’s shoulder as the two exit the elevator. Patrick still hasn’t figured out how to respond by the time the elevator has taken him all the way back up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loves! Posting from London. Tell me everything you think to help me decide what to write next <3 <3 <3

* * *

_Dream a dream, here's a scene_   
_Touch me anywhere ’cause I'm your baby_   
_Grab my waist, don't waste any part_   
_I believe that you see me for who I am_   
_So spill my clothes on the floor of your new car_   
_Is it safe, is it safe to just be who we are?_

* * *

Being a single parent on public transit is a two-hand job, so Pete doesn’t even get around to checking his phone til hours later, when Bronx is zoned out on cartoons and surrounded by a truly epic explosion of discarded Legos, train tracks, and action figures. He’s like the eye of any given storm.

It starts ringing in his pocket, and he fishes out the slim black iPhone from around the wad of cash Patrick gave him this afternoon. (Three hundred fifty in twenties. Pete would feel skeevy about it, except he saw how fancy that law firm was. Patrick probably fishes rolls of twenties like this out of his couch cushions the same way Pete does nickels.)

He doesn’t recognize the number, but he answers anyway. Bronx’s mom hasn’t been in touch in a while, and he never knows when she gets a new number. “Hello?”

“Mr. Iero’s requesting dinner with you for 5pm this Wednesday,” says someone with a clipped, professional voice Pete doesn’t recognize. “That’s going to interfere with the Hurley deposition unless you move the location to somewhere downtown. And the DA’s asking for a confirmation on the Armstrong cross-examination, and I know we’re running pretty close to the wire on prep. What would you like me to do?”

“Uh,” says Pete. He pulls the phone back from his ear and stares at it. He has a smear of PBJ on his forearm from his son’s mouth. This call is so very, very not for him or the life he leads. “I think you have the wrong number.”

“I don’t,” the person says with crisp and total confidence. “I called Patrick Stump’s personal cell. If you’re not him, you have the wrong phone.”

The cash exchange replays in Pete’s head: Patrick grabbing his phone out of his hand and stuffing it into his own pocket. Patrick handing his phone back to him with his wad of cash. Pete feeling so awkward about the money that he just shoved both into his back pocket to be dealt with later. “Oh,” he tells the terrifyingly competent professional on the line. “You’re right. Um, can you tell Patrick that Pete has his phone?”

“Certainly. If you’ll just tell me how I’m meant to reach him?” The person on the other line is sounding even less patient, if that’s possible.

“Right. Yeah. Okay. He probably has mine, so—I guess I’ll get in touch with him that way?”

“Great,” the person on the line says scathingly. “I’m guessing it’s too much to ask you to relay the message to him?” Pete stumbles through a few non-word syllables and the person on the other end cuts him off sharply. “Never mind. Tell him to call Ryan at his earliest opportunity.” 

Pete looks over at his son, whose nose is less than 3 inches from the TV screen. He looks back at the phone in his hand. The lockscreen is set to a game-changing catch against the ivy at Wrigley Field, not a picture of a smaller Bronx on the back of Pete’s enormous white dog. Fine time to notice that.

He presses his thumb against the home button and the phone prompts him for a passcode. On impulse, Pete keys in 1870, the year the Chicago Cubs were founded. The phone unlocks and Pete feels the unlikely pleasure of guessing the content of a stranger’s heart thrum through him like _meant to be_. He actually—he _liked_ Patrick. He didn’t expect to. He answered the ad because he gets lonely, working from home and hanging with Bronx all day. He answered the ad because he doesn’t get a lot of adult socialization, doesn’t go on that many dates. He answered the ad because his ex is unreliable with child support and extra cash is always needed. He doesn’t know why he answered the ad, okay? He goes a little stir crazy. Sometimes he does insane things.

The point is, though, that he fully expected Patrick to be a weird sad creep. Instead, he was smart, funny, and dead-ass sexy in his well-tailored suit. They got along well—Bronx liked him—Pete actually had fun. _And_ he didn’t turn out to be a serial killer, which is the risk you always run, using Craigslist. This was a man who could have a _real_ husband, if that’s what he wanted. So maybe Pete doesn’t feel all that annoyed about the hassle required to swap phones back. Maybe seeing Patrick again doesn’t sound like the worst thing. And maybe he feels a little pleased with himself that he guessed the passcode on the very first try.

He hesitates only a moment before composing a text to his own number on Patrick’s phone. _hey it’s pete. i have ur phone._ He doesn’t need to text an unlock code, because again, he’s a sad single dad who never goes out. What does he need a passcode for?

Once the message is out into the ether, Pete finds his finger hovering over the Photos icon. There’s no social media on here, no dating apps—at least not at a more-than-cursory glance. It’s beyond messed up to read through Patrick’s emails or messages, Pete knows that. But surely it wouldn’t hurt to just _peek_ at Patrick’s pictures?

Pete’s skeeviness is rewarded by a photo gallery that’s almost entirely empty. There are some screenshots: songs on Spotify, some confirmation numbers from emails, ingredient lists from a couple recipes. There are basically no pictures of anything. Two pairs of shoes with a pair of pants—Pete hopes he wore the grey shoes, it’s a better match; a few different shelf labels at a hardware store; an interesting sunset through a distorted El window; and one picture of Patrick in a mirror, wearing a t-shirt, thick-framed glasses, and an unimpressed facial expression. Maybe it’s a new phone, or maybe Patrick really _is_ a serial killer, because this is _sad_. Doesn’t Patrick have anyone in his life?

The phone vibrates and Pete’s so startled he nearly drops it. That’s what he gets for being a creep. It’s a message back from his number. It reads _Fuck!_

Then another: _You’re not gonna ransom it, are you?_

Pete bites his lip by reflex, smiling down at the glowing phone. _depends. do u know any good lawyers who could defend me on charges of extortion?_

Patrick sends back, _My phone is kind of my lifeblood for work… Any way I could get it back from you tonight?_

_your assistant(?) was already rude to me once. trust me, i don’t want to keep it. But bedtime’s in an hour and it’s a bath nite… tomorrow?_

Three dots appear, indicating Patrick’s typing. It takes long enough that Pete starts to get antsy, feels like he pissed Patrick off. But there are hard limits to how accommodating he can be. He’s not gonna mess up Bronx’s whole routine for some hotshot lawyer who has to hire a family: their priorities are obviously quite different.

Finally, the phone vibrates. _I could come to your place after bedtime and pick it up..._ the message reads.

All the blood in Pete’s body has one split second to decide if it’s heading for his face or for his dick. He _felt_ something, kissing Patrick’s neck—wasn’t just acting. The guy smelled like some combination of laundry detergent and aftershave that shouldn’t have been irresistible, but was. And did Pete admire the cut of his pants one or two too many times this afternoon? Perhaps. And now Patrick wants to come over, after Bronx is sleeping, with a message ending in _an ellipsis_? It’s not totally unreasonable to think some part of this could be a booty call.

It’s not totally unreasonable to kinda hope it is.

Ugh. Listen, Pete gets _lonely_. Pete gets lonely and embarrasses himself.

 _i don’t think that’s a good idea_ , Pete sends back quick, before he can get himself into any trouble. _just cuz you didnt murder us today doesnt mean you won’t tonight, right?_

Patrick texts back fast enough that Pete doesn’t get anxious this time. _Don’t give Craiglist guys your home address. Got it,_ the message reads. And then, a moment later:

_So where are we meeting tomorrow morning?_

They arrange to meet at a coffee shop in Pete’s neighborhood, nowhere near Patrick’s office. Pete wonders if that means Patrick lives somewhere nearby Wicker Park, or if he’s just being considerate of Pete’s needs. Pete strives very hard to feel no particular way about either option. The rest of the conversation is completely businesslike, which means Pete probably imagined any hint of flirting before. Isn’t it supposed to be the johns who fall for the working girls they hire, not the other way around? Ugh. Pete is too embarrassing to live.

Still, he adds himself as a contact in Patrick’s phone before he rounds Bronx up for the bath. He may or may not put a winking emoji in after his name.

*

Patrick is unprepared to walk into The Wormhole and find Pete Wentz in a clinging black v-neck and jeans, sitting underneath a life-size DeLorean. Pete’s alone, another element Patrick is unprepared for, and closely focused on a broken-backed book, so Patrick has a moment to stare and try to slow down his breathing. He thinks about just turning around and leaving—Pete is impossibly, _impossibly_ good-looking and Patrick suddenly can’t stop thinking that Pete was only being nice yesterday because Patrick was _literally paying him to_ —but he needs his fucking phone.

So he strides forward into the unbelievable awkwardness of his own creation, trying to embody the prepared, dynamic confidence he rides into court.

“Hey,” Patrick says (smooth, suave, sexy). Pete looks up from his book and his face remakes itself into a crinkle-eyed smile. Patrick forgets every word in the English language. “Can I buy you a coffee?” he blurts out, which is an incredibly inane thing to ask, because Pete has a coffee cup sitting in front of him already.

Patrick should just give him the phone and leave. Pete doesn’t want him here. He’s a weird, awkward Craigslist disaster—this is why he doesn’t date, this is the exact kind of clusterfuck his whole life is designed to circumvent—

But Pete pushes the chair opposite him out from under the table with his foot. It nudges against Patrick. “Got one. But you could sit with me instead,” he invites. “The matcha latte is excellent, if you’re into that.”

Patrick sits, then immediately wishes he’d gotten a drink first, just so he had something to do with his hands. “Is Bronx with his mom?” he asks. He doesn’t know why he asks that.

Pete’s brow furrows, just for a moment. “Preschool,” he says. “Like he told you—he does half-days. Seriously, want some of my latte? I’m having a hard time watching you just sit there without caffeine.”

Patrick smiles involuntarily. It’s so easy for Pete to disarm him, somehow. This is the worst kind of awkward situation, but Pete makes it feel natural. Pete makes it feel like somewhere he actually wants to be. He picks up Pete’s mug, takes a sip of the drink, tries not to think about Pete’s lips on this same surface. They’re nice lips. Not that he’s noticing? But yeah. Pete’s whole face turns into a light source when he smiles, and Patrick hopes the imprint of those lips are scalded into his skin permanently. The whole mouth region is, um, pretty excellent.

“Delicious,” Patrick says, and he does not specify what he is describing. He pushes Pete’s coffee back across the table. 

“Great! I’ll order you one,” says Pete, and he’s up and heading for the counter before Patrick can stop him. The tables have somehow entirely turned on Patrick’s attempt to buy Pete’s coffee. He feels more wrong-footed than ever.

When Pete comes back, he says, “So your friendly assistant was telling me that client we met together wants to do a daddy dinner date with you next Wednesday.”

Patrick groans, drops his head to the table. “How do I get myself into these situations?” he mutters.

“By weaving elaborate lies about having a family, seems like,” Pete offers helpfully. Patrick glares up at him so balefully, it makes them both laugh. A barista with a full tattoo sleeve drops off his latte, and Pete makes friendly conversation with her about the Jack Skellington tat they both apparently have. Patrick didn’t even know Pete had tattoos, though now that he’s looking, he thinks he sees something peeking up from the v-neck. He’d be interested in making a full catalog. He gets a little lost in the warmth of his drink and watching the ease with which Pete glows at other people. It feels like being in direct sunlight.

When the barista returns to her post behind the counter, Pete turns back to Patrick and says, “Anyway, me and Bronx are free for dinner that night if you want.”

This is so unexpected, Patrick can’t really process it. Is Pete offering to pose as his husband again? Why would he do that? Then he remembers that he gave Pete $350 for the luncheon. Now that Pete’s face is the one associated with Patrick’s, like, fake family franchise, he can probably charge whatever he wants. This guy doesn’t like Patrick, he likes getting paid. 

“Are you serious? For how much?” Patrick asks. Something flickers across Pete’s face—this is the wrong question—but Patrick needs to know.

Pete looks down into his coffee and shrugs one shoulder. “Pick up the tab on dinner and we’ll call it good,” he says to his drink.

Patrick knows there’s got to be a catch. Like Pete’s going to harvest his organs or steal his identity or use him as an alibi in a murder trial. He’s aware it’s kind of sad that those things seem more likely than someone wanting to spend time with him without being reimbursed, but here he is, here is the life he is living. “Why would you do that?” Patrick asks.

“I had fun with you yesterday,” mumbles Pete. “Thought you did too.”

Patrick finally notices the hurt on Pete’s face and realizes he’s being an asshole. “Shit,” he says with feeling. “I’m sorry. That’s really nice. I’m not trying to be cynical, but—you’re like this sexy, interesting guy who definitely has better things to do than go to a dinner meeting _I_ don’t even want to be at. It’s just hard to imagine why you’d want to pretend to be married to me if it’s not for money.”

Pete’s lips twist, just a little, showing the corner of a smile. “You think I’m sexy?” 

“Everyone in this coffeeshop thinks you’re sexy,” Patrick says. “Next question.”

“No way, you’re not shifting that one off onto these innocent people. Patrick Stump thinks I’m sexy,” Pete teases, cupping one hand loosely around his mouth to make his voice carry.

Patrick can feel himself begin to blush. Pete’s face splits into a full grin when he sees the spread of heat on Patrick’s cheeks. “That’s why I fake married you,” Patrick mutters. “The sexiness. That, and the speediness of your Craigslist reply. Now shut up.”

“See this, _this_ is why I want to hang out with you. Free dinner _and_ entertainment. You look like a tomato right now, man.”

Patrick sips his latte scowling, but the truth is, the teasing makes him happy. Makes him think maybe Pete _does_ want to be around him. This is not something he ever expected to want.

“Thanks for the coffee, by the way,” he says.

Pete shows his teeth. “No problem. I just got paid. Husband for Hire is actually a pretty good side hustle.” Patrick snorts, and Pete reaches out to touch his forearm lightly. Patrick’s jolted by the contact— _voluntary, nonbillable touch_ , he thinks. Then Pete asks, “So, we on for Wednesday?”

Patrick hesitates. He finds it hard to trust anything he wants this much. But it _would_ really help him with the promotion if he brought Iero on as a client. So he says, “It’s a date.”

Pete ducks his head, smiles at the table. Patrick tries very hard not to think about what this could mean. “Cool,” Pete says, rosy from smiling. “It’s just that I really don’t want Joe to get that office. That guy was a total dick.”

“How can I ever repay your selfless devotion to interoffice politics?”

“Start with dinner,” Pete says. “We’ll see where that takes us.”

Patrick’s heart trips, falls over. Is Pete already ‘on the clock’ as his husband, or is this for-real, bona fide flirting? He can’t tell at all. Hiring actors to play your family is either the best or worst way to meet someone. And since when does Patrick want to meet someone?

He puts his latte in front of his mouth to hide his smile. 

*

Pete doesn’t know if this is a date or a job, which makes it hard to choose what to wear. Working from home, he wears sweatpants more days than not; just putting on underwear and jeans starts to feel like fancy dress-up after a while. Indecision is agonizing, so ultimately he just asks Bronx, “What should Daddy wear to hang out with Patrick?” He ends up in a faded Star Wars t-shirt, a thick green cardigan, and black jeans. “Good job, buddy,” he says, looking himself over in the mirror.

“Pagrick is gonna play X-Men Fight with me,” Bronx informs him confidently. He packs his little _Cars_ backpack with action figures, showing them to Pete one after another, narrating, “Pagrick likes this one,” or “I’m gonna be this one and I’m gonna _blow him up_ ,” or “This is a good one maybe?” or “You can’t touch He-Man, Daddy, only Pagrick plays with that guy.”

The great thing about having an energetic four-year-old is there’s never any lull in the stimulation, never any time to get knotted up in your own worried thoughts. Pete chats and plays with Bronx on their way into the heart of the city, applying himself fully to the Wolverine-vs-Velociraptor battle that unfolds on the back of their seats, and doesn’t give himself a chance to feel anxious at all. He doesn’t even get sweaty til they’re walking up to the doors of the restaurant, Bronx squirming in his arms because he wants to walk by himself but has a history of displaying dangerously impulsive parking lot behavior.

Hands full, head full, heart full. That’s from the Pete Wentz Guide to not losing your mind as a single dad. Remind yourself that your life is overflowing, constantly. Make contact with gratitude for the son (sun) in your life. Remember that you don’t even have time to feel lonely. And maybe, occasionally, when you’re really hurting, trawl Craigslist for hook-ups that can accomodate a preschool schedule. Possibly respond to weird ones about fake husbands from time to time instead. You know, for variety. Or because you’re not the only one with a history of displaying dangerously impulsive behavior sometimes. Same difference, right?

“Bronx, wait for me!” The kid achieves his freedom at the maitre’d stand, and totally ignores Pete’s protest to bolt across the restaurant towards the table Patrick’s already seated at. On the one hand, this makes for a very convincing performance. On the other, Pete probably needs to spend more time on the concept of stranger danger.

By the time Pete makes it to the table, Bronx is already established on the floor beside Patrick, unpacking his backpack with methodical determination. Patrick looks up at Pete with a Sentinel figure in his hands, looking a bit flushed and dazzled. “Pete,” he says, and the word is packed with meaning. “It’s good to see you again.”

Patrick is so _bad_ at this. Pete’s amazed he hasn’t been caught out in his lie a hundred times by now. Iero, weighed down in infants, is already at the table, watching them. “This morning was a lifetime ago,” Pete says melodramatically, grinning, and swoops down to kiss Patrick’s cheek. “We live together, remember?” he whispers when he’s close to Patrick’s ear. Then he swans around the table to embrace Iero with one arm. “It’s great we could make this happen,” he tells the man. “And who are your friends?”

Iero introduces his tiny daughters. Bronx seems intent on monopolizing Patrick’s attention, so Pete gets the rare pleasure of interacting with an adult human. Drink orders are placed, then dinners. Alcohol and friendly company warms Pete all the way through. Patrick’s thigh brushes his from time to time; Pete squeezes his shoulder. He pretends it’s not electric, but it is.

“Stop me if I’m being obnoxious,” Iero says, sometime after his third beer, “but can I ask about Bronx?”

Pete is puzzled by this, which probably he wouldn’t be if he really _were_ one half of a gay married couple—probably he’d be used to it then. “Sure,” he says. They’ve spent the last hour talking almost exclusively about their kids. He thinks this should be obvious.

“Where did you, uh,” Iero fumbles. “How did he join your family?”

Pete realizes now what’s being asked. His eyebrows raise slowly. “I found him in a basket of reeds floating down a river like Moses,” he says. “I made him, dude. Do you need me to explain how?”

Iero has the decency (and the blood-alcohol content) to blush. He is very handsome when he blushes, Pete can’t help but notice. Under different circumstances, he would be interested in flirting. He reminds himself not to do so now. “I’m being a dick,” Iero concludes. “Fuck. You guys probably deal with this shit all the time. It’s just, someone at that lunch said you guys adopted. But I keep thinking he looks a lot like Patrick, doesn’t he?”

Patrick’s head appears over the edge of the table. Somehow Bronx has talked him down onto the floor. He’s smiling, and it makes Pete’s heart go deer-in-the-headlights still.

“His mom is blond,” says Pete. It’s all he can think to say. The two of them kind of just gaze at Patrick, considering, til he laughs and says, “What? What are you staring at?”

“Oh, just the best-looking guy here.” Pete’s not even acting. That’s just what comes naturally out of his traitorous mouth. 

Patrick turns red as Satan. In the base of his belly, Pete _feels_ how much he likes that effect. On impulse, he leans across the table and sticks out his hand. Cautiously, Patrick takes it. Pete brushes his lips across Patrick’s knuckles and searches oceanic eyes for some sign that he’s electrified, too.

The night wears on, til dishes have been cleared away, drinks refilled. It’s late enough that restaurant staff are cleaning up the empty tables around them. A few other parties linger in the large, open-concept room, voices and laughter and the crackling fireplaces providing a pleasant background hum. Patrick is slumping in his seat, leaning against Pete without seeming conscious of it. Pete has an arm around his shoulder, can’t quite stop his thumb from tracing small, soft circles. That’s when bedtime hits like on oncoming train. Iero’s daughters are a chain reaction: when one starts to fuss, it makes the other whine. Soon they’re sailing right along towards howling.

“Better get out now before they go supersonic,” Iero excuses himself, sheepish but charming. They say their goodnights, shake hands, make friendly noises about how pleasant the evening was. Iero leaves first, bogged down with infants, and Pete and Patrick linger at the table, watching him go.

“That was kind of okay,” Patrick tells him. He sounds surprised. An overtired Bronx rolls slowly across the floor at their feet. “This is the kind of outing I made you guys up in order to avoid, but… I didn’t hate it.”

Pete tucks a hand around Patrick’s waist. Being couple-y with Patrick feels more like picking up where he left off than starting something new. “If I had to be the figment of someone’s imagination, I’m glad it’s yours. You are the dreamer, we are the dream.”

Patrick leans into his touch, their bodies fitting together like they were made to, and there’s a moment that’s totally nice. It’s a date, Pete finally decides, or: he wants it to be. Close enough to no different. Except usually when he goes on dates, it’s not like this. With Patrick, Pete actually feels… less alone.

Then Bronx lets out a crabby half-wail and Patrick startles in his arms. “Oh, shit,” he mutters, disentangling himself from Pete’s embrace and jumping to his feet. “I am so fucking dumb. Frank’s gone, you don’t have to, like— _husband_ me or whatever—”

Pete is eager to consent to whatever might happen between them. “Oh, no, I wanted—”

“I mean I know I wouldn’t want someone just grabbing me—”

“Shit, should I not—because I do want to—”

“You’re being TOO LOUD!” Bronx hollers from the floor, interrupting the landslide of miscommunication. “Use a inside voice an’ make green choices.”

Pete and Patrick stand apart, the same cringe worn across their shoulders. “I’d better get him home anyway. Don’t want to miss the last train,” Pete says weakly. Fuck. At least he’ll have the _entire train ride_ with a cranky four-year-old to contemplate whether he’s just sexually assaulted Patrick.

“No,” Patrick says, shaking his head in dismay. It is impossible to know what part of this situation he’s responding to. “I’ll drive you.”

*

Of course Patrick has a car seat. Of course it’s Bronx’s size. He bought it to enhance his lie one time when he had a client meeting out in the suburbs and he had to drive instead of taking his usual train. You know, just in case. 

“You might be an actual sociopath,” Pete tells him, glancing into the backseat to watch Bronx’s head nod towards sleep. 

“Like you wanted to take the train all the way back to Wicker Park at 10 o’clock on a Wednesday,” Patrick scoffs.

“Oh, I didn’t mean sociopath like a bad thing. I _really_ like you,” teases Pete.

They’ve recovered, Patrick thinks, from the situation that almost happened at the restaurant. The one where Patrick forgot Pete was a _paid actor_ and started to melt into his touch, started to _like_ it. That’s the line over which this Craiglist arrangement becomes actual prostitution. Patrick would know: he’s a lawyer. But if they’ve recovered why does he flinch when Pete says that? When it turns out liking Patrick is really just a punchline?

The twisting thing he’s feeling in his chest right now, it’s exactly why actual romantic relationships are not worth the trouble. They’re so _confusing_. No one is ever honest or direct about what they want. You just end up resentful and alone in a different configuration.

“Well, show a little gratitude, then,” Patrick teases back, like he’s made of ice, like his wounds feel like nothing.

“The ride is nice, I’ll let you have that,” Pete says, patting the stitched leather passenger seat in appreciation. He’s been fiddling with the seat-heater since he got in. “I should really consider marrying for money.”

“I know a guy who’s single,” Patrick says. Why not join in on the joke he is? The joke of his life? Who wouldn’t find this hilarious? Who can even hear the crack in his voice?

Pete squeezes Patrick’s thigh, just above the knee, and Patrick’s foot jerks on the gas pedal, jolting all three of them. Pete withdraws his hand so quickly it may as well have never been there.

They’re quiet for a while, Pete looking out the window. They cruise through the finance district and Pete sighs to himself, “Chicago’s so beautiful at night.”

“‘Cause all the piss just looks like puddles in the dark?” says Patrick, even though he loves this city, because he’s still feeling geared up and jagged from the leg squeeze.

Pete laughs, shoots him a look. “Oh my god, romance isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

“No audience, no romance,” Patrick shrugs. “I’m a cynic, baby.”

“C’mon, tell me something you love about this city,” Pete presses. “Give me your best date vibes.”

It’s like everything out of Pete’s mouth is scientifically calculated to make Patrick more awkward. He takes a deep breath, buying time. Then he starts saying things that are true, possibly for the first time all evening. It’s like pressure lifting off his chest. For a liar, it sure makes him uncomfortable to fake it all evening. “The way everything glitters in the winter, the ice and streetlights bouncing off each other. The way all the lights become their own stars and we can make new constellations of the Sears, the Tribune building, Navy Pier. Um, the small shops you find, records and books crammed away in dusty corners like no one’s shopped there in decades, even though it’s always crowded. The fierce stubbornness of the people who live here, angry and cold and insisting everything’s fine. The food. I can’t live anywhere without a major Italian population, I need this food, my thighs need this food. Um…”

Pete is full-watt grinning at him now. “So pretty lukewarm about Chi-town, then.”

“Yeah, I might just move to Indiana,” Patrick says. He can feel himself blushing from the outside, heat rising off his face like sun bouncing off fresh-covered potholes in July. 

“Well, is there anything keeping you here? Like a girlfriend? Like. Are you like. Seeing anyone?” Pete is staring at him so hard it feels like a performance demand. Patrick laser-focuses on the road ahead, not knowing what to say.

“Just guys I hire on Craigslist,” he tries, but the joke lands flat, makes him sound a little too Ted Bundy. Wincing, he adds, “Not like—I mean—it’s just I kind of have a rule about dating.”

“Right, Statute 318 of the Patrick Stump Code of Conduct. Remind me what that one is again? I get mixed up on the by-laws.”

Patrick laughs like it hurts him, because it does. “Uh, don’t. The rule is don’t.”

Pete laughs back the same way. “Me too, kind of. With Bronx, you know. It’s…”

“Complicated,” Patrick finishes.

There’s a flushed, uncertain moment of mutual vulnerability. Of unison. It stretches between them like a spiderweb, tremulous but strong. “This is us up here,” Pete says, pointing to a strip of curb in front of one of those old Chicago buildings that looks like a castle. The brick is buff colored, made of the glacial blue clay that characterizes post-Great-Fire architecture. There’s a slightly overgrown front courtyard, flanked by symmetrical wings of regularly-spaced windows, all of it crowned by sculpted coats of arms along roof features that evoke ramparts. You can tell just by looking there’s no elevator. It’s beautiful, in the way of exposed furnaces and creaky dark-wood stairs and entryways full of tiny cracked tiles, handmade and hand-laid and just barely irregular. It’s beautiful in the way of Chicago.

Patrick’s feeling a little romantic and dewy-eyed about architecture, a shade of nostalgic for his days living in a turn-of-the-century shithole. He bets Pete’s got rotted wood windowframes that rattle when the El goes by, a cramped galley kitchen, a bathroom mirror tarnished by age so his reflection is always slightly blurred, its edges eaten away like an old photograph. Patrick’s feeling all of this and Pete’s in the passenger seat beside him and Bronx is dead asleep in back, and it’s warm in the car but outside the air is cold with autumn’s relentless advance, and you can’t see the stars because of the city lights and somehow even that feels like poetry.

Pete lists towards him like a leaky ship, his eyes burning like barrel-aged bourbon. Patrick’s breath is coming a little short. He licks his lips and thinks about his heart rate. When did his mouth get so dry? It’s alcohol. It’s method acting. Iero is gone and Pete is getting closer. He wants Pete to—he wants—

“You should know I’m gay,” Patrick blurts out. 

Pete freezes, less than an inch between their mouths. His eyes drag heavy up Patrick’s face. He says, “What?”

“I—I’m gay,” Patrick repeats. He is the stupidest man alive. He hates himself, he must: it’s the only explanation for his dumbass behavior. “Um, I just thought you should know, in case that makes this… weird.”

“Do you think this situation would be _less_ weird if you were straight?” Pete asks. It’s hard to think with Pete’s lips so close. The gleam in Pete’s eyes has gone dark. Patrick is trying very hard not to get goosebumps. Goosebumps or, um, anything else.

“It’s just. If you kiss—if anything happens. It might not feel like part of the act to me. I might, um. I mean I can’t guarantee I won’t… enjoy it.”

Patrick could not possibly feel sleazier. But Pete does something he does not expect. Pete rolls his eyes. “Patrick?”

“Yeah?”

“If I kiss you, it’s because I want you to enjoy it.”

All Patrick can think to say is “Oh.” He doesn’t need to say anything else, maybe ever again, because then Pete is kissing him. Pete is kissing him like he’s maybe never been kissed. Pete is kissing him and the world fizzles out, popping into sparks and then darkness like a paparazzi bulb. Bronx at their feet, the restaurant around them, the stinging memory of Iero’s careless words, the Cheshire haunting of Joe Trohman’s smarmy smile: it all just slides out of focus. Pete’s mouth is hot and urgent, tastes like liquor and need. Patrick’s body is all the way awake, a feeling like the princess on the other end of true love’s kiss, shaking off a foggy century of numbed-out sleep. Pete is kissing him, and there is nothing else.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow guys, I did NOT mean to let all of february pass and not give you another chapter. can I just say travel, job, coronavirus frenzy, sudden last-minute very expensive housing change, and you'll forgive me? I hope so. I appreciate you.
> 
> don't forget--I'm really digging [the story playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LT4yacMwKS4sMsJCIDrJM) for this one.
> 
> featured: evil Joe Trohman moodboard

* * *

_I want a love that falls as fast_   
_As a body from the balcony, and_   
_I want a kiss like my heart is hitting the ground_   
_I'm holding my breath with a baseball bat_   
_Though I don't know what I'm waiting for_

* * *

The next time they go on a date, they mean to. 

Patrick’s at work, as usual, when he gets the text from Pete.

_i want to kiss you again. how long do i have to wait before I tell you so?_

An idiot grin spreads across Patrick’s face. Even alone in his office, he ducks his head to hide it. He’s run his fingers over his lips half a hundred times today, chasing the whole-body tingle of memory, of Pete’s touch. You’d think he’d never been kissed before! Patrick is extremely embarrassing.

 _2 days_ , he texts back. _Otherwise I’ll think you’re desperate._

Right away, Pete answers. _that’s exactly what i am. how’d you know??_

_Shh. Not supposed to tell a guy that less than 12 hours after you kiss him_

_you know how you said you don’t date?_

_Yeah—Statute 318_

_i wonder if there r any loopholes in that? if only i knew a lawyer who could look @ it…_

Patrick might as well be on the moon right now. _You’re in luck_ , he types. _I’ll run it past Legal and let you know if there’s anything we can do. What are the details of the proposed excursion? asking for my law guy_

_patrick stump, you *are* my luck. riverside dining w a chef from sicily, friday at 7. i’ll wear a tie_

“What do you look so happy about?” Joe’s slimy voice from his doorway scares Patrick so bad he drops his phone. His twitterpated grin passes through guilt on its way to scowling.

“Skilled attorneys find joy in their work,” he tells Joe.

“Ha!” Even Joe’s laugh is abrasive. He oozes into Patrick’s office, uninvited. Patrick didn’t realize soulless bloodsucking vampires could do that. He leans in and plucks Patrick’s phone off his desk. “Ew, Stump, are you in here _flirting_? Ooh, wait til the mister finds out you’re texting some rando—wait, is this contact named Rent-a-Fam?”

Patrick snatches his phone back and shoves it deep in his pocket. He wills Joe’s hateful form to shrivel into wormy powder before his very eyes. “Get out of my office and crawl back up Bebe’s ass,” he snarls. “It’s an inside joke. You wouldn’t understand.”

But the look on Joe’s face says he understands plenty.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

*

Halfway through asking the guy out and Patrick just—ghosts. Pete sends a few more texts: _okay, okay, no tie_ , followed by _or italian?_ and then, 10 minutes later, _i’m sorry if i crossed a line_ , followed by a slightly panicky _we can keep things professional if u prefer_ and a full panicky _can we pretend I never asked? ignore me once for yes, twice for no_.

He’s feeling pretty queasy and ashamed about the whole embarrassing ordeal by bathtime. The thing that disturbs him most is how wrong he got it. Completely misread the entire vibe. Their chemistry is so _good_ , or at least he thought it was. He thought maybe they just needed to get out of their own way and let their bodies figure it out. Like—he read this somewhere—an acorn doesn’t intend to become an oak, it just does it, unfolding naturally into its strongest, most perfect form.

But that’s stupid. Pete’s stupid. Pete is, at worst, possibly a little rapey. Because didn’t Patrick _say_ he didn’t date? Didn’t he stop Pete from touching him ‘off camera’ again and again? Didn’t he tell Pete not to text him? All the moments Pete interpreted as jokey and flirtatious, mutual chemistry, sexual tension, oakiness—maybe Patrick’s just a good fucking actor angling for a promotion, and Pete’s a delusional lech who forces himself on perfectly nice career-focused strangers from Craigslist. 

He feels so bad about himself, in fact, that while his son sculpts volcanoes out of green apple-scented bath bubbles, he opens Grindr and starts swiping. 

It’s a numbing, empty habit. Dead time, TV static, a meat market of bodies who forgot they have souls, looking for the most geographically convenient dick to stopper up the hole inside them. La petit mort, right? They’re all just trying not to exist.

Or is that not what everyone else uses sex for?

It’s not as if Pete’s had his heart broken so many times, really. It’s more like the times that it has—Jay saying he loved him and then showing naked pictures of him to the whole school, his mom sending him to Wilderness Camp because of it, Bronx’s mom leaving them when Bronx’s age was still measured in weeks and months—it broke so thoroughly that all he’s working with now is an infrequently palpitating powder.

“Daddy, _look_ ,” Bronx says sternly, the whine in his voice suggesting it’s not the first time he’s asking. Pete shakes himself from his torso-induced stupid, his dick pic daze, to see his blond, bubble-covered son orchestrating an elaborately violent stunt with his bathtime dinosaurs.

“That’s cool, buddy!” Pete praises, hoping Dad Voice conceals his deep, almost spiritual exhaustion. Bronx seems satisfied, at least. Pete puts his phone down to forget on the bathroom counter. He’s not horny, he’s _sad_. He doesn’t need dating. He’ll stick to what he’s good at: helping this tiny, amazing human grow. Bronx doesn’t intend to be an oak tree, he just is one. Pete couldn’t be prouder or more in love. This is enough.

They play til the bathwater goes cold (Bronx accuses it of being mean to him), then watch a David Attenborough documentary about the Serengeti on the couch until both their eyes close. Pete carries Bronx to bed in the dark, deftly stepping over stray Crayons, Pokemon legos, and hard plastic whale figurines. He falls asleep on the floor next to his four-year-old’s bed, the sound of Bronx’s breathing washing over him like the only thing he’s ever done right in his life.

In the morning, Pete finds his phone at 27% battery in the bathroom. There’s a message from 11:14 last night, a message from Patrick. It says _Fuck, I’m so sorry, I got caught up in work stuff. #murdertrial. Friday sounds perfect, it’s a date_.

Pete texts back, _did you just hashtag at me? #slashtag?_ , and bites his own smiling lips. Two things right, then, maybe. A date.

*

T-minus 7 hours from the first real date of this pretend marriage, and Patrick can barely concentrate on what Bebe is saying. Usually on Fridays he works late, gets takeout from the greasy Chinese place near his El stop, and falls asleep on the couch watching competitive baking shows. It’s not sad: he likes it that way. So he can’t figure out why he’s practically vibrating with excitement for this very different type of evening. 

“Patrick? Hello?” Bebe is right in his face, her glare made more fierce by eyeliner wings sharp enough to cut you. “I said, the DOJ is threatening to send in a special prosecutor and bring charges of domestic ecoterrorism against our client. The stakes just leapt from industrial neglect fines to the death penalty.”

“They’re bluffing,” Patrick says automatically. The Hurley case is high-profile, huge retainers and heaps of billable hours—a case about money, reputation, industry sanctions, and at worst the word _manslaughter_ getting tossed around and inciting a second, separate libel case. Press fodder. There’s no way the DOJ is going to make this about _terrorism_. It’s patently ridiculous. 

“Or maybe _they_ know something you don’t,” Bebe hisses. “Maybe _they_ are showing up at work and staying til their jobs are done, going through years of tax documents and interviewing witnesses—you know, turning up actual evidence, instead of sitting in their office sexting all day? Or whatever it is you’ve been doing instead of your job this week.”

Patrick splutters in protest, but Bebe silences him with a look. “Don’t even start. Your work has been so sloppy even the intern is catching your mistakes, and we all know Mikey can’t find anything unless his dick is pointing at it. I don’t know where your head is at but you need to get it back here, _now_ , or else John Hurley’s only heir is going to be serving a death sentence in federal prison. Pretty sure we lose the account if we let that happen. Or should I say—if _you_ let that happen.Rexha, Saporta, and Hoppus won’t shake that off lightly, Patrick. The case will only be the first thing you lose.”

“The window office,” Patrick breathes.

“Your _entire job_ ,” Bebe snaps.

Patrick tries not to visibly squirm, even though his guts are churning. He turns up the dial on his professional iciness and says, “I’m not going to them stick terrorism charges on my client, Bebe.”

She shows all her teeth, white and weirdly sharp in a blood-red frame of lipstick. “I know you’re not,” she says, crocodile-sweet. “I’m putting Joe on your team to make sure of it. Hurley’s IndustriTech is our third largest account. Did you realize? That’s more money per annum than your _life_ is worth, so don’t think I care about your pissing contest. Work with Trohman. Compete like petty children. Win this case and partner is yours. Lose it, and…” Bebe shrugs, a snake in a two thousand dollar suit. _And whatever happens to you after that is not my problem_.

As Patrick leaves the conference room, tail between his legs, Bebe calls after him, “If you were a little friendlier, Patrick, people might work harder to protect you. Instead you’ve made yourself the one person in this firm easiest to throw under the bus.” 

Patrick looks back at her, perched on the edge of the table and smiling venomously. “You’ve got my cell number,” she adds. “Think about it.”

After that, all good feeling is pretty much gone. He sends off a batch of frantic emails to the paralegals, assigns one of the firm investigators to find a business competitor they can try to pin the jury’s suspicions on, starts Joe pulling cases that set precedent for environmental terrorism charges, and hunkers down with Andrew Hurley’s file. He texts Mikey five coffee emojis and disappears into his work, not to emerge for hours.

It’s 7:45 by the time Patrick’s Uber drive _finally_ pulls up in front of the restaurant. It’s not _quite_ on the river, as promised by Pete, but otherwise it’s clearly upscale. Decoratively rustic brick and strings of patio lights line the garden seating area and lead the way to the front door. Colorful food, artful portions, expensively thin white plates, candle centerpieces, more bottles of wine than Patrick can count. It’s the exact opposite of the greasy, hole-in-the-wall, laminated-menu-placemat type of Italian place Patrick so loves about Chicago, but he’s got to admit, this place makes a better date location.

For all that, Patrick barely notices the surroundings. His brain’s still at work, racing and whirling. He’s a disheveled mess, rumpled from hours digging through file drawers on his knees and crumpled up at his desk, hunching over papers and yelling into the phone. He’s honestly a little pissy about having to interrupt work for this social engagement. There’s maybe part of him that hopes Pete’s give up and gone home and won’t text him again—then _he_ could go home with his case files, get back to work, and nothing about his life would have to change.

But you can’t meet someone like Pete Wentz and not want your life to change.

When Patrick sees Pete through the window, alone at a table for two with a candle and a bottle of wine that both look rather low, the last of his irritation vaporizes. Total animal longing rushes up to take its place. He tries to fix his appearance (too little too late) as he walks in: straightening collar, removing crooked tie, brushing bagel crumbs from pants. He rakes his fingers through his hair and doesn’t have to force the smile on his face as he walks up to Pete.

“God you look good,” Patrick says, an incantation or a greeting, as he slips into his seat. Pete looks up from his phone with faraway eyes. He’s in a slate grey shirt with a banded collar, top 3 buttons undone, a few inches of winter-pale tattooed skin breathtakingly visible below his throat. His pants are black and fitted, his facial scruff freshly trimmed, and he is in every way perfectly beautiful. “But you said you’d wear a tie,” Patrick adds, because jokes. Jokes will cover up the dumb, drooly gawping.

“And you said you’d be here at 7,” Pete says mildly. Patrick doesn’t know if it’s the wine or what, but when Pete meets his eyes it’s like looking at a stranger. The warmth of the fake husband gaze is entirely gone. The melting heat just before Pete kissed him is nowhere to be found. Patrick gets the sense that he’s fucked up this date, somehow, before it ever started.

He takes a guess at his sin. “To make up for being late, I’d like to buy dinner,” he says as cheerfully as possible. “Though I should warn you, lawyers say that a lot.”

“I think I learned something about you tonight,” Pete says, taking a big purple gulp from his bell glass of red wine. Patrick’s very essence shrivels. He does not like being told about himself. “You’re a work guy. You’re a worky workerson. If we keep going on dates it will always be like this. You’ll fill up your life with work and I’ll be lonely all the time, at home alone with my son like Don Draper’s wife, and I won’t be allowed to get mad about it because you’ll say, _You knew when I met me what I was like_.”

“I think I’ll probably say _You met me BECAUSE I am like this_ ,” Patrick says. “And then I’ll say, _And meeting you was the first time I even considered there might be another way to live._ And then I’ll say _be patient with me._ And then I’ll make a corny joke in a movie trailer voice, like, _Murder waits for no man_ , and if I’m lucky you’ll laugh, and feel a little less mad at me.”

Pete takes another sip of wine, considering. Patrick snags the bottle across the table and pours what’s left of it into his own glass. “You must really like me, if you waited 45 minutes,” he says. There’s a little bit of wonder in his voice. “Thank you.”

Between them on the table, Pete’s phone screen lights up with an orange Grindr notification that snags at Patrick’s gut. Pete shoves the phone into his pocket and the jolt of embarrassment on his face makes him look approachable for the first time tonight.

“It’s not a big deal,” Pete tells him. This is said so smoothly, while so blatantly contradicting his weird speech about Patrick’s nature, that Patrick begins to comprehend how skilled Pete is at presenting what he thinks other people want to see. “I’m glad you’re here now. Though I think we need a second bottle of wine.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Patrick grins, toasting.

By the time they’ve ordered their entrees and put a dent in the second bottle of wine, Patrick is telling Pete all about his case, including details that technically should not be released to the public. “So what started as manslaughter by criminal negligence is veering with alarming speed towards suspected _terrorism_ —as if this guy would sabotage his own company by blowing up his workers! But I guess no work crews were meant to be on site at the time of the explosion, and scorch patterns suggest that what was initially deemed an industrial accident _could_ have been an intentional detonation? Which to me sounds like we need to hire a different scorch expert, in case you know any whose partiality can be influenced by dollar bills…”

Pete is so attentive to his every word that Patrick feels like he’s in a TV show about sexy young lawyers, because only on TV has he ever seen an attractive single man interested in courtroom gossip and the banal details of hiring expert witnesses. He doesn’t notice that he’s slipped and used his client’s actual name til Pete says, “Wait, you said IndustriTech? So then—the son you’re representing. Do you mean Andy Hurley?”

“Shit. Pretend I never said that.” Patrick winces into a large sip of wine.

“Hold on,” says Pete. “It’s—Patrick, I _know_ Andy. Knew him. I am totally not surprised he ended up facing charges.”

“Wait, what do you mean?”

Pete shrugs, drains his latest glass of wine. Patrick guesses that if you’re paying for a babysitter, it’s a ‘go big then go home’ type of mentality. “The Andy Hurley I met in Wilderness? He would have blown up his father’s work site in a heartbeat.”

There’s a lot of ways Patrick could follow up on this, few of them ethical. “Wilderness like, survival day camp for baby psychopaths, drug addicts, and general delinquents?”

“The very same,” says Pete. “Spent two years there. Guess which one I am?” 

The server arrives bearing pasta-heaped plates and the conversation is momentarily derailed by the mingled smells of butter, garlic, and heaven. Pete fills his mouth innocently with food, precluding further questioning. Patrick stabs a cavatappi noodle and ventures, “It occurs to me I don’t know much about your past.”

“Really all you know about me is that I’m the kind of person who answers escort adds on Craigslist,” Pete says, his mouth full. At the look on Patrick’s face he starts to laugh. “Oh my god, I’m not _dangerous_! You’re the one who solicits prostitutes on the internet. I’m just a stay-at-home dad with a lot of tattoos and a checkered past.”

“Let the record show that I have never hired a real prostitute. Just whatever you are,” Patrick says gravely. In reality, he does know a little bit about Pete’s past. No court records, so whatever landed him in Wilderness must have been expunged when he turned 18. Not that Patrick used databases he only has access to because of his profession to look up his date. Um. He would never. Most of what he knows he learned by honest eavesdropping on Pete’s conversation with Iero over dinner: fell in love with a girl, got her pregnant, proposed. They postponed the wedding til after Bronx came and she left Pete with little more than an apology before the kid’s first birthday. This story conflicts with the timeline of Patrick’s elaborately crafted work lie, which makes him nervous; but he figures that means it’s true.

“C’mon, Patrick. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. Unless you’re planning to stick with the mysterious stranger with a shadowy, emotionally traumatic past routine?” Pete needles, snapping Patrick out of his head and back to the moment. Patrick steals Pete’s trick and fills his mouth with food to buy time. But Pete has a four year old at home: he’s experienced with stall tactics. He has the discipline and training to wait them out. Eventually, Patrick has no choice but to speak.

“Well, I went to law school at Loyola, mostly so I could move back to Chicago—of all the places I’ve lived, I had the best memories here—and getting into U Chicago was, like, not a practical life decision, even if I’d had the grades for it, which I did not. I did okay on the LSAT though, and Loyola has decent financial aid, so—”

“Pause. Halt. Wait. I ask you about your dark past and deep secrets, and you’re telling me about your decision-making process for _choosing a law school_. This content is less relatable than you may think,” Pete teases. “You really are all work and no play, huh?”

Patrick feels his guts clench around it—the probing, the scrutiny. It’s the feeling of wings spread apart with clumsy thumbs, back rough against cork, and the pin coming down to spear him to the board. Patrick has built his entire life around avoiding situations in which he might be known. 

Someone with a voice that sounds a lot like Patrick’s is saying, “With this Hurley case in my lap I really don’t have time for a relationship.”

Patrick is serious, but for some reason Pete busts out laughing. “I think you have the worst social anxiety of anyone I’ve ever met.” 

“I’m not anxious,” Patrick protests. “I just don’t really enjoy being close to people.”

“Okay, for real. What twisted shit happened to you? Is this a Batman situation? Do you have a fake life to cover up your vigilante crime-fighting efforts? Were your parents shot in the street in front of you when you were six years old? What gives, Stump?” 

His eyes are so bright and his laugh so becoming that Patrick decides to go along with it. With Pete—with everything.

Like Pete, Patrick’s juvenile court records are sealed. No one can find this shit on any database, and he’s never said out loud, ever, to anyone. He has no contact with anyone from that time in his life. It’s information that doesn’t exist anymore, not unless Patrick speaks it into being. Not unless Patrick gives it away for free. He exhales forcefully. It is not, after all, such a big thing. Is it?

“I grew up in foster care,” he says, for the first time since he turned 18 and walked out of the system forever. “So my life starts with law school. I don’t want to talk about it. Can you drop it? Or do I have to leave you a bad Craigslist review?”

Pete mimes zipping his lips, throwing away the key. “Cross my heart and hope to die. I won’t ask again.” His eyes are big, earnest, unreadable. All Patrick can see is coffee-red, amber-flecked, vacuum-of-space pupil. If there is judgment there, or recognition—Patrick can’t see it. 

They go back to talking about the case, about Pete’s colorful history, about anything-but-Patrick. They flirt, they laugh, they drink, Pete drops it. Pete seems as warm and interested as he did before. Patrick’s heart rate slows down again, over the course of the second bottle of wine. Pete shows off his dark secrets and makes no effort to learn more about Patrick’s. It’s actually a pretty good date. 

*

Somehow, stumbling up the front steps of Patrick’s building. Somehow Patrick’s body pressing his back against the elevator wall, mashing half the buttons. Somehow, mouths. Somehow, bodies. Somehow—

It’s dark in Patrick’s apartment, and anyway Pete hasn’t had his eyes open for more than a gasp at a time since they got out of the car, where he pushed Patrick up against the side of his Lexus and felt him up in the parking garage. Patrick’s undoing Pete’s shirt with the ease of a man who wears button-downs daily, not just for dates—the creamy linen flies apart under his touch like it longs for the floor—and then Patrick’s smoothing Pete’s shirt open over his chest, staring open-mouthed for a moment at the bared skin and collarbone revealed. Then he attaches his mouth to it, and Pete’s knees weaken, and he sinks onto some conveniently placed piece of furniture and Patrick comes down with him. Patrick’s straddling his lap, grinding against him, Pete’s shirt a distant memory; his hands are on Patrick’s hips, his thumbs dipping under Patrick’s waistband, Patrick’s teeth bruising his collarbone, Patrick’s lips at his throat—

Breathing hard, Patrick pulls back, and in the moonlight Pete gets his first real look at the other man. Lips swollen and shining, chest heaving with effortful breath, eyes grey and gleaming like starlight on a still sea in the low light; hair tousled by Pete’s hands, shirt unbuttoned over a silver-pale chest and hips soft under Pete’s grip. He looks so beautiful. He feels so _right_. Pete wants to sink into him in every possible way. He looks up at this person, this gorgeous mostly-stranger, and feels something moving stealthily beneath the pure, mindless worship that is sex. He senses that with Patrick, he could do something other than recreational nonexistence.

He doesn’t know if he’s into that. But he says, “I really like you,” at the exact same moment Patrick says, “I think this is a bad idea.”

Pete’s brain stumbles to catch up. “What?”

That unguarded, honey-slow look on Patrick’s flushed face startles and sharpens. “I haven’t had sex in a long time. And I don’t know if you’re—if like. If I trust you.”

“Wait. Are you supposed to wait until you trust people before you have sex with them?” Pete’s joking, but it’s the wrong moment for it. Patrick’s face grows more remote. Pete’s awkward laugh falls flat. “Kidding. I’m kidding, Patrick. I was honestly just sitting here with this really hot guy on my lap thinking _oh shit this feels really real and I don’t know if I’m ready for that_. So, um. Maybe we’re on the same page?”

Patrick’s eyes come back into focus on Pete. “So it’s okay with you if we don’t hook up tonight?”

“Patrick. Of course.”

Patrick considers him. “Okay. Let’s definitely keep kissing, though.” He pulls his arms out of his shirt sleeves, drops it to the floor. 

“Definitely yes,” Pete agrees. Then Patrick is pressed against his chest again, the world is fireworks and tongues, and it’s not just not existing. Pete would like to find out where all this goes.

Pete wakes up on Patrick’s couch in the early hours of the morning, his phone buzzing against the hardwood floor. The sound of a phone going off in the dead of night sparks an immediate surge of Bronx anxiety, strong enough that he’s off the couch with phone in hand before the disorientation of waking up somewhere unfamiliar even hits.

But what’s blowing up his phone isn’t a Bronx crisis. It’s a booty call.

Another message lights up his phone, casting the room in blue light. He’s been drooling on Patrick’s expensive couch, Patrick gone to bed hours ago after a long session of making out and wandering hands and full-contact cuddling that felt more intimate, and therefore much more alarming, than any of the meaningless sex Pete’s been having the last few years.

One of those meaningless sex partners sends a picture message next. Pete’s stomach twists. He knows what it is already, knows what the sender wants back. He doesn’t want to open it.

He does, though. And the dick of Mikey-from-Patrick’s-office sears into his eyeballs, un-unseeable. But it’s not like he hasn’t seen it before.

Pete’s scared. Scared of what he felt for Patrick tonight, or: what he could feel for Patrick, if he doesn’t fuck it up. He’s anxiety overcharged from waking up somewhere surreal, worried that his son is dead. He doesn’t want to stay here, in all the niceness. In all the order and control of Patrick’s apartment, Patrick’s emotional implications, Patrick’s rules.

Bronx is with Pete’s mom until morning, but last he checked there wasn’t a law against picking up your kid early. It’s not like Pete’s mom can possibly think any worse of him—what’s a 3am pick-up gonna do? All he knows is he’s not going back to his apartment alone, and if he can’t follow Patrick into his bedroom and he can’t get Bronx, he’s going to end up at Mikey’s.

Before he goes, he does take a quick picture of his red, half-hard dick and send it back to the guy from Patrick’s office. He doesn’t feel great about it. But you do what you have to, right? One sip of oblivion at a time. He leaves a note on the dining room table that says,

_your turn to plan a date. see you second star to the right and straight on til morning._

He signs it with a heart and his initials and doesn’t think too hard about it. He gathers up his clothes and he’s gone before sunrise.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to make me a sociopath Andy or a slimeball Joe moodboard?? 
> 
> You guys are the best. enjoy lock-in, and some [fake family jams](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LT4yacMwKS4sMsJCIDrJM)
> 
> featuring: ecoterrorist andy (?!?!) moodboard

* * *

_let's not settle down, I don't want it_   
_let's start living now_   
_I would be better on my own, but_   
_I don't wanna be apart_

* * *

_You have 30 minutes._

_is this a fucking saw movie??_

_i said no_

_The picture you sent me says yes_

_This is evidence, Pete. I’m a lawyer. I’m going to present it to the jury if you keep refusing to speak to me face-to-face._

_1\. you are an intern_

_2\. i don’t know what the fuck you think your evidence proves? or what u think i owe u?_

_So you’re fine if I show this picture of your dick to your *husband*?_

_fucking hell, Mikey_

_It’s now 25 minutes._

Come Monday morning, Pete and his son are on the El again, speeding towards the Loop as quickly as fucking possible. This is not what Pete had planned for the _middle of his workday_ but hey, that’s what dick pics get you. Fucking trouble.

“Where are we going, Daddy?” Bronx asks for the sixteenth time. His voice is little-kid shrill and the cutest thing in the world and right at this moment, Pete can’t handle another second of him. 

“To get lunch with Patrick,” Pete says, also for the sixteenth time. He needs a cover story, doesn’t he, for showing up at Patrick’s law firm in the middle of the day with his kid in tow? He’s going to kill Mikey.

The irony that Patrick would not even recognize Pete’s dick if Mikey showed it to him is not lost on Pete. Mikey’s only seen it a handful of times himself—a couple unplanned Grindr hookups a while back and a few late-night sexts over the weekend, that’s it—but Pete doesn’t want to ruin Patrick’s cover story. Or Patrick’s feelings for him, if Patrick has any. Or his feelings for Patrick, if _he_ has any. Last night Patrick said he wasn’t sure if he could trust Pete, and Pete was scared by how much he wanted Patrick to, and so he immediately followed up by doing something untrustworthy.

Now here they are: on an El. Rocketing through the city. Clock ticking. Dick picking. God, Pete makes bad decisions.

*

On the other side of the table, Andy Hurley is impeccable. Immaculate black suit over a black silk shirt, tailored so well and worn so effortlessly that Patrick feels actually shabby in his own suit, on which he spent over one thousand dollars. Hurley’s hair is cut short, shaved on the sides and slicked back in a deep brown wave over his forehead. His eyes are icy slate set in an intense face, all brow and jaw and stubble that would scrape your skin raw. Even with a suit on, you can tell he’s _built_. He could probably bench-press Patrick. It’s like sitting down with a panther, hoping social niceties encourage it to keep its claws sheathed. Knowing that one predatory whim is all that’s between you and being disemboweled.

Patrick felt prepared to meet with his client until somewhere into the second bottle of wine on his date, when Pete started recounting memories of Hurley from his Wilderness days. Now he sits across the cafe table and feels glad they’re meeting in public—not because he’s afraid of the man, but because he’s afraid of his _guilt_. Terrorism charges are going to plaster this case all over the 24-hour news cycle, and Hurley is less likely to say something openly incriminating at a Corner Bakery than in Patrick’s office. Patrick will do better in front of the press if he can keep the illusion of Hurley’s innocence alive for himself. 

He picks at a raspberry bar and wonders how he can throw Joe under the bus on this one. Eliminate his rival, sweep into the corner office, and distance himself from a domestic terrorist all in one fell swoop. It’s a beautiful daydream.

A beautiful daydream that Hurley interrupts by saying mildly, “I heard we might share an acquaintance.”

The soft, friendly voice is so at odds with the coiled intensity of the man’s physical presence that it sets Patrick’s teeth on edge. “Oh?” he says, equally mildly. He hopes.

“Tell me, how do you know Pete Wentz? I’d like to think that if you had any questions about my past, Patrick, you’d come to me first.”

Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. When he was a little drunk and Pete was shirtless and sculpted under Patrick’s hands and hips and thighs, this seemed like a much smaller issue. Hardly an issue at all. Hurley’s gaze is patient, unyielding. He takes a sip of his espresso and clinks the tiny cup back into its saucer. There’s a high-pitched whining that Patrick thinks is coming like steam out of his own ears.

“We’re, um, married,” Patrick lies.

Hurley’s eyebrows leap at that, his face chilling in sudden mirth. “No, you’re not,” he says. “You’ve never been married.”

Patrick opens his mouth to sputter some kind of protest, and Hurley _winks_ at him. He’s too shocked to produce sound.

“There’s not much about you I don’t know, Patrick,” his client goes on pleasantly. “You began meeting with Mr. Wentz _after_ you took my case. You understand my curiosity is prudent?”

“It’s entirely coincidence,” Patrick croaks, because he has to say _something_. “Improbable, godawful, stupid coincidence, and also by the way a bellweather example of _why_ _relationships are horrible and should be avoided at all costs_.”

Hurley’s beatific smile doesn’t budge. “You understand that my trust in you necessitates more details about the situation? My fate rests in your hands.”

Patrick, turns out, is not the hugest fan of being told what he understands. He crams half the raspberry bar into his mouth at once, hoping to choke to death, and tells his client with his mouth full, “All right. It’s important that we trust each other, so I’ll level with you. Pete is my fake husband.”

Andy Hurley, suspected ecoterrorist, makes a face like this is the most preposterous thing he’s ever heard. Patrick frankly does not like his tone. Even though he’s not technically speaking.

“I pay him,” Patrick says through gritted teeth, “to attend my work functions… and pretend to be… my husband.”

The possible sociopath sitting across from him asks, “Who would do that?”

“Um. Hire a husband, or be a husband for hire?”

“Oh, I’m not surprised that this is where Pete’s life has taken him. I’m concerned about you, Patrick.” Hurley’s eyes are glittering like he’s highly amused. Patrick takes from his tone that he’s teasing. Patrick is being teased by the kind of person who would blow up his own employees. It does not feel great.

“I answered your question about my relationship with Mr. Wentz,” Patrick says. “Can we return to discussing trial strategy?” Stick to the professional role. That’s who he knows how to be. The rules of his job are comforting; the real world is trash. In a courtroom, even the messiest emotional turmoil has a set of procedures to contain it. People are held accountable for their actions. Trusting the process of the law is what got him out of the worst situations of his upbringing. And goddamnit, it’ll get him through this situation too. 

Hurley surveys him with an expression that is far too satisfied for Patrick’s comfort. “I’d prefer not to go to trial, actually.”

“It isn’t up to you, _actually_.” His irritation is obvious in his voice—more evidence of his recent lapse in control. Pete is compromising his effectiveness across domains.

Hurley shrugs. “Well, you’re the expert. But I think the workers’ families would settle for the right price. And Patrick—as someone on his payroll, you do understand my father’s rape and pillage of the earth’s natural resources has made him a _lot_ of money. The expense is not an issue.”

“Great,” Patrick bites out. “Then I’ll contact the opposing counsel and feel out what kind of offer they’d be receptive to. There’s really no need for us to meet again until we hear back. My people will keep preparing for the possibility of trial, and you just… keep yourself out of incriminating situations in the meantime.”

Hurley’s face is so punchable in this moment. “Is restoring environmental justice really an incriminating act?” he asks demurely over the lip of his espresso cup.

“That is exactly the kind of thing I don’t need you saying in public,” Patrick sighs. He crams the rest of his pastry down his throat and heads back to the office, where his life is simple, predictable, and controlled.

*

Joe Trohman is very innocently pulling some files down in the stacks when he overhears the most _interesting_ conversation. 

Look, he’s not a cartoon villain. It’s not like he has a nefarious scheme to eavesdrop, nor a mustachio to twirl while he does so. It’s just unusual to hear a child’s voice in the file room—unusual on the scale of, _literally has never happened_. It perks his ears up. 

“Daddy, look what T Rex is doing now,” the tiny voice pipes. 

“Very cool, Bronxie. Daddy’s talking right now, okay?”

“He’s biting Wooblerine’s arm ALL THE WAY OFF! ROOOOAR!” 

“Adult conversation time, pumpkin,” the other speaker replies.

Joe would go back to minding his own business, maybe, except that he peeks around a bank of filing cabinets and sees his nemesis’s husband disappearing deeper down a shadowy aisle. He’s not the type of guy to do this, really, but when an opportunity presents itself… You don’t get to Joe’s position by passing up on opportunities. 

So does he leave behind the file cabinets he legitimately needs to dig through? Well, technically, yes. Does he creep as quietly as possible to an aisle closer to where the husband and tiny child disappeared? Again, yes. But his _reasons_ are good. Pure-hearted, even. He figures he’ll catch Patrick taking a booty call at work, use it to discredit his efforts on the Hurley case and take over, win the office Bebe’s been dangling over everyone’s head and prove his superiority to the blond work-shirking wonderkind for once and for all. You know. For the good of the client.

What he doesn’t expect is to hear Hubbo say, “I can’t believe you’re trying to blackmail me into hooking up with you.”

Joe’s head spins for a minute, trying to fit this into the situation he _thought_ he was snooping on, before someone who is decidedly not Patrick replies, “I can’t believe you’ve been hooking up with me and not telling me you’re _married_!”

And just like that, it’s the best day of Joe’s life. Here he thought this was a chance to minorly discredit Patrick at work, but no, it’s an opportunity to _emotionally destroy him_. Joe drops all pretense of file-seeking and creeps closer, the better to overhear.

“That’s—I—it’s complicated,” Husband of the Year stammers. The golden son starts making loud explosion sound effects and smashing his toys together.

Joe knows the other voice. He tries to place it. Younger than Pete, he thinks—there’s the smugness of someone unaccustomed to power who’s stumbled upon a windfall of it, not entirely absent of whine. “I just want an explanation here, Pete,” the other voice is saying. “We hook up, you say you’re single, I see you at my _workplace_ with a _husband_ , you send me a picture of your junk and then tell me we can never see each other again. Like. What’s going on?”

The voice clicks for Joe then. It’s the tone the kid uses when he’s helping prep clients for depositions and cross-examinations—it’s his grown-up attorney voice. It’s Mikey, Bebe’s least favorite intern. Joe catches himself literally rubbing his hands together in filthy glee. Right—there was that weird run-in between those two at the fateful luncheon, wasn’t there? Joe could cackle. This is _too good_. Joe cannot _wait_ to ruin Patrick’s life.

“What’s going on is that you’re blackmailing me,” Hubby says. “I came here to watch you delete those photos. We had fun together and now you are acting like a crazy person, and we are done. And I’m, um, also married, so.”

There’s the sound of a scuffle, a muffled cry of surprise, and then the unmistakable sound of two people macking.

Someone collides bodily with the file cabinet Joe’s pressed himself to, sending him stumbling back. Pete’s voice rises in hot indignation. “God, Mikey, can you _not_? I don’t want to kiss you! That’s the whole point!”

“Daddy, pushing is what bullies do,” the small-yet-judgmental voice of the child says.

“You can’t treat people like we’re _things_!” declares Mikey, and Joe thinks it’s a strong argument. “If you don’t want to see me anymore, fucking _fine_. But I’m showing your husband your dick.”

Oh, it’s the wrong moment to laugh. The element of surprise is Joe’s main advantage, here. But it belts out of him in a bray. “Shit!” one of the men yelps. “Is someone there?”

Joe shoves some evidence aside and pokes his head through one of the shelves of file boxes and waves. “Sorry guys,” he says, not even pretending he actually is. He can’t stop chuckling. “Objectively, the conversation you’re having is _really_ funny.”

Pete’s face is entirely bloodless. “Are you going to tell Patrick?”

“Oh, definitely yes. Of course yes. Yep. I sure am,” says Joe.

“Uh, which is irrelevant? Because I was going to tell him?” Mikey puts in, clearly getting his feelings hurt in every direction. 

Pete looks back and forth between them. “I need that to not happen,” he says, all soft and hopeless. Joe sees why Patrick likes him, the philandering bastard. When anyone else would get angry, Pete draws into himself, more and more sad, more and more tender. A boy without edges, except those he’d use against himself. “Please,” Pete says. “I really like this guy.”

That’s an odd fucking thing to say about someone you are purportedly wedded to, but then, this situation has always struck Joe as fishy, hasn’t it? Every word out of Patrick’s conniving mouth has always struck Joe as slimy, shirky, less than entirely true. If it turns out Joe was right all around, and real-husband-Pete has never actually been married to Patrick at all...

“And I’d really like a window office,” Joe says with a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, bud. You really should’ve thought of that _before_ you decided to sleep with an intern at your supposed husband’s firm.”

Pete’s face screws up in frustration, and his son is visibly distrubed by his distress. The kid begins pulling on Pete’s coat sleeve, making bids for his attention. 

“It’s not like that!” Pete cries, exasperated. He shakes his head and scoops up his worried kid. “Seriously, just— _fuck_ you guys. You are not nice people.”

“You’re one to talk!” Mikey yells at Pete’s receding back. The kid waves at him over Pete’s shoulder, saying, “Bye! Bye-bye! Bye! You sayed a bad word, Daddy.”

“Well, if we’re done here, I’m gonna go upstairs and ruin Patrick’s life,” Joe tells Mikey through the file shelf. “Good work, kid!”

Weirdly enough, Mikey seems unmoved by Joe’s praise. Not Joe’s problem. He hums to himself as he heads for the elevator. He didn’t pull the files he needs for the Hurley case, but that’s okay. He can always make Mikey do it later.

*

Pete’s whole life is throbbing in his ears. This same dumb, stupid shit. This absolute idiot brain of his. This dirty, stupid boy made of thorns and shame. This is the same thing that happened last time. This is close enough to the same thing that it doesn’t matter. Once when he was young, Pete was in love with a boy at school, and he thought that boy loved him back. Pete let that boy take pictures of him naked, and then that boy showed the pictures to everyone and said, _Pete’s a homo, Pete’s a fag_. Pete’s locker got vandalized. Pete’s car got keyed in the parking lot, not just by one person but like, _again and again_ , so many different people who hated him, friends and strangers and anyone who wanted to jump on. And maybe they didn’t hate him: maybe it was worse. All the people hurting him didn’t care about him at all. Pete got beat up in the locker room. His clothes got stolen during gym class and he’d find them after, in the toilets or pissed on or sticky with semen, _heard you like that, Wentz,_ like it’s less gay to jerk off onto somebody’s clothes as a hate crime than it is to kiss a boy you like. Then finally, when he’d had enough, Pete hurt another kid so bad he ended up in the hospital. And that’s how Pete got sent to Wilderness.

Someone else might have called Patrick. Might have said, Let me explain. Or, I’m sorry, I fucked up, can you forgive me? But Pete’s mind is made up on the matter of forgiveness. Pete’s mind has been made up for a long time. So Pete doesn’t call Patrick, or try to beat Joe to his office, or send flowers he can’t really afford, or anything like that. Pete just gathers up his kid, texts his famously unsympathetic sister / only reliable friend, and heads for home.

That’s the plan, at least. Until he almost bowls Patrick over in the lobby of his office building.

“Pete!” Patrick squawks, either in greeting or panic, and Bronx squeals “Pagrick!” with delight. 

“Oh shit!” Pete startles back, and then Bronx is launching himself off Pete’s chest and into Patrick’s. Patrick’s arms come up to receive him after a nearly imperceptible hesitation. 

“Hi, Bronxie! Wow, you guys surprised me!” Patrick says in his child-friendly voice, the cooing sunshiney one that comes so naturally to his tongue, for all his usual standoffishness. “Are you—leaving?” Patrick asks Pete over the child’s blond head. “I was at a client meeting, but I’m here now, if you wanted to—I mean, assuming you came here to see me?”

“I’m actually a witness in a high-profile murder trial,” Pete says, thinking this is a funny thing to say, but Patrick’s face blanches horribly.

“Oh god,” he moans. “It’s Hurley, isn’t it? Fuck! We can’t be seen together.”

Pete puts his hands up. “Whoa, whoa. I was kidding.”

“Pagrick sayed a bad word too,” Bronx tattles without remorse. 

“Grown-ups are allowed to say that,” Pete says automatically. “Words aren’t bad or good, buddy.”

“I am having a weird morning,” Patrick says. “Sorry about the overreact.”

Pete winces. “Uh, I think I probably made your morning worse,” he says. “I was actually—we were getting out of here. Trust me, you aren’t gonna want me around.”

Patrick shifts Bronx onto his hip with the practiced movement of someone accustomed to childcare. It’s probably the kind of personal historical detail he doesn’t want Pete asking him. He squeezes Pete’s upper arm with his other hand. “As long as you haven’t been called as a witness in the Hurley case, Pete, there’s no one I’d rather have around. What’s going on?”

If there were a god, Pete would be struck by lightning before he had to answer. Instead silence stretches into atheism. Pete opens his mouth to say, _Your coworkers are about to blackmail you with a picture of my unmentionables,_ but what comes out instead is, “Let’s go for lunch.”

If he can just keep Patrick out of the oncoming path of Joe, maybe they will never need to have this conversation at all. Maybe there will be no consequences, this time, for Pete’s indiscretions?

Patrick glances over to the elevator bank, appears to weigh something within himself. “Well. I really can’t afford more time out of the office with this case where it’s at. On the other hand, everyone thinks I’m at a client meeting… Yeah. Okay. Let’s go for lunch.”

“I want a swamwich,” Bronx announces. And that settles it. Pete keeps his idiot mouth shut, and they strike out in search of lunch.

*

When Joe finds Patrick’s office empty, he makes himself comfortable in Patrick’s chair. He puts his feet up on Patrick’s desk blotter, wishes his shoes were coated in slush. He steeples his fingers and lays in wait.

That gets boring, after a while. He tries vandalism to pass the time, drawing rude doodles deep in the center of Patrick’s stacks of sticky notes and legal pads and letterhead. But damned if Patrick just isn’t coming back to the office. Joe flips open the leather planner Patrick has left on his desk (who still uses paper planners? Honestly!) and sees that the morning is blocked off for a client meeting. His watch says it’s after 1pm. He bets Patrick is working the Hurley case out of the office deliberately, just to cut him out of the loop.

Well. Maybe seeing the look on Patrick’s face when he finds out his cherished supposed husband is unfaithful isn’t the most damage Joe can do. Maybe he can play this news to his advantage in another way. After all, why settle for disemboweling Patrick’s spirit when Joe could tank his career too?

Joe pours Patrick’s paper clips loose into his file drawer and steals a handful of K-cups. That’s what you get for leaving your office unlocked. Then he heads for the path of most destruction: Bebe’s office.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy pandemic, my dears. Here's a chapter early because what else are we supposed to do??
> 
> Still soliciting moodboards from you lovelies! And [don't forget to check out the story playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LT4yacMwKS4sMsJCIDrJM)!

* * *

_I know you would run away with me_   
_You'd know you could count on me completely_   
_No matter how hard this world may be_   
_I've got you fake baby_

* * *

Pete cancels their next date. Not because he’s panicking that he still hasn’t told Patrick about the unfortunate picture and it’s only a matter of time before Joe and Mikey strike. Not because he’s scared of messing up the realest thing he’s felt since Bronx’s mom. Not because Patrick planned a too-intense date, a cocktail-making class at the Koval Distillery. No, Pete resists canceling for any of these reasons. He’s even kind of looking forward to it. 

Then Bronx wakes up with a fever that morning, and that’s that. No dating will occur tonight. 

That’s what he thinks, anyway, until his apartment buzzer gives its persistent, grating shout around 6:40. It’d be right on schedule for Pete’s usual weeknight Thai delivery, but with a sweating-shivering-puking kiddo on the couch, he definitely didn’t order Thai. He leaves a stack of grilled cheeses sizzling away on the stove, ruffles Bronx’s sweaty hair on his way past, and hits the speaker. “Yeah?”

“Okay don’t freak out,” comes the staticky response. “I’m not stalking you. Really this isn’t different from you showing up unannounced at my place of business, except you live here, but that doesn’t need to be creepy—”

“Patrick?” laughs Pete. He’d recognize that anxious babble anywhere.

“No, it’s the California Strangler. Buzz me in, I brought soup.”

“Pagrick,” Bronx croaks when Patrick walks in. Rosy and flushed, he reaches his little hands out. Patrick’s carrying a big carton of Panera soup and a bouquet of flowers, but he sets them on the floor and sinks into the big leather couch next to Pete’s sicko. Bronx immediately presses himself into Patrick’s side. Patrick puts an arm around him, holds him close. They look so comfortable together, Patrick nigh-unrecognizable in jeans and a sweater, Bronx snotty with labored breathing and big shiny circles under his eyes, snuggled up like they’ve done it every night of their lives.

Pete feels ten different ways as he collects the soup and finds a Rubbermaid pitcher (the closest thing he owns to a vase) for the flowers. This is—nice. Beyond nice. No one has ever brought him soup while his kid was sick. Usually when Bronx is sick, Pete has to pack him up and bring him with, on foot or by public transit, to the pharmacy for medicine, lotion-soft tissues, whatever else is needed. Patrick has done something so simple and domestic and _helpful_ that Pete has zero fucking clue how to go on.

“You know, I’ve used the sick kid excuse to get out of social obligations so many times,” Patrick says, when Pete returns with a plate of grilled cheese held in front of himself like a shield. “I never thought I would actually be spending an evening with a sick kid! You might just make an honest man of me.” He blinks up at Pete, those calm sea-glass eyes, his arm around Pete’s golden son like it belongs there, and Pete can’t tell if he wants to drag Patrick into his bedroom and ravish him or start crying.

Pete sits down hard in the armchair beside the couch. His lungs aren’t working right. Neither are his legs. “So maybe we’re really doing this,” he says, mostly to himself, struggling to parse the whirlwind of feels swirling inside him. _Patrick’s acting like we’re really doing this, and I sent Mikey a picture of—_

“What’s that?” asks Patrick.

“How was your day?” Pete says more loudly. Patrick answers, and they chat and eat and watch obnoxious cartoons with a very sick little boy, and it’s so nice that Pete can’t process it. After a while, Bronx falls asleep tucked up against Patrick.

“He really likes you,” Pete murmurs, affected to his core by his child attaching to Patrick so easily. “You’re great with him. Did you grow up with kids? Siblings, or…?”

Patrick jerks around to stare at Pete, his face quite still. “I told you I don’t want to talk about that,” he says stiffly.

“Wait, does that mean I can’t ever know anything about your past?” Pete asks, half-playful. “I mean, I told you _all_ my worst shit.”

“You chose to do that. I didn’t ask you to.” Patrick is sitting up so straight now that Bronx slides off him, rolls over fussily to press his face into the couch.

Pete sits up straighter too. His heart rate has spiked. “That’s how getting to know someone works.”

“I never said I wanted to get to know you. I never said I wanted to be known.”

“TOO LOUD!” Bronx hollers crabbily, lifting his little red face to hurl accusations. 

This at least gives Pete a way out of this hideous moment. He dives in and scoops up Bronx, going into soothing mode. “ _You_ are the one who showed up out of nowhere at my house with _soup_ and _flowers_ ,” he snaps at Patrick as he carries Bronx out of the room. “That suggests you want to know me.”

After a few minutes of settling Bronx in his bed, rubbing his back, and speaking softly to him, Patrick appears in the door with a jar of water. He holds it out awkwardly to Pete. “In case he’s thirsty,” he says. “I couldn’t find any cups.”

“Jars are cups,” Pete says, taking the water and offering some to his half-delirious child. “A free cup you get anytime you buy pasta sauce. Jars are amazing.”

Patrick stays in the doorway while he finishes putting Bronx to bed. He hesitates there, Pete standing before him in the dark. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“C’mon,” says Pete with a jerk of his head, then brushes past the Patrick barricade to the living room. He’s not having this conversation at whisper volume in Bronx’s doorway. That is far too reminiscent of his disastrously brief marriage.

Pete doesn’t sit. He stands with his arms crossed, feeling spiky, and watches Patrick resume his place on the couch. Rougher than he means to, he asks, “What’s your deal? Do you want to date me, or not?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick says. He sounds miserable. Pete is having a little trouble feeling empathy for him, at the moment.

“That’s a little insulting,” Pete points out, because Patrick is looking like he wants Pete to comfort him, and Pete doesn’t want him to think he’s entitled to emotional labor just because he’s sad. You have to be nice if you want to receive care from others. Them’s the rules.

“Yeah,” Patrick says morosely. “And confusing. You make me—confused.”

Damn it, Pete _does_ want to comfort him when he looks like that. Pete pulls the ends of his sweater down over his hands, makes fists of wool, and resists.

Evidently aware no rescue is coming, Patrick puts his head in his hands and sighs gustily. “I have never wanted any of this shit,” he says to his hands. “I was good, without you. Excelling at work, living in a nice condo, enjoying how quiet and clean my own company is. I didn’t need more. I wasn’t looking for more. I advertised for a _fake family_ so I wouldn’t have to interact with an actual one. This is all—a lot for me.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for you to be super handsome and flirty and sweet, you know. I didn’t ask for you to drive me home and be nice to me and snuggle up all domestic with my son. It’s not what I bargained for either, when I answered that ad—weird living snapshots of the family I always wanted and never deserved.” Pete stops abruptly. His own vulnerability is too much to speak around. He doesn’t _want_ to be vulnerable with the suit of armor Patrick is trying to be.

Patrick looks up from his hands. “Do you have any idea how scary it is to think about saying _yes_ to you? How scary it is to want to?”

Pete chews his own lip. It’s hard to get words out. Finally he just says, “Yes.” Then he sighs, massively, to match Patrick’s. “Listen. Will you come to Thanksgiving at my parents’ with me?”

Patrick visibly startles. “You think meeting your family is _less_ overwhelming for both of us?”

“No. I think—I think I’ve never brought home anyone respectable, and even if we were just pretending, it would do me a world of good to earn some credit with my mother. And if we weren’t pretending, maybe it would be a good… test run. For what it would be like if, um, we decided to be together. You know?”

“You’re crazy,” Patrick says faintly. “That idea is crazy.”

“You do kinda owe me,” Pete points out. “Anyway, if you don’t want to do it, I guess I can always hire someone on Craigslist.”

Patrick laughs in spite of himself. “Oh, I wouldn’t recommend that. Guys who answer those ads are _weirdos_.”

“Well, think about it,” says Pete. “I’d like it if you were my weirdo. And don’t worry, it’s a paying gig. I’ve got a pocket full of cash from the last time I studded myself out.”

He sits down beside Patrick on the couch, even though he feels too revved up to sit still. He bumps his leg against Patrick’s, hoping physical contact will defuse what conversation can’t. Patrick bumps his leg back, traces loops on the palm of Pete’s hand where it rests on the cushion between them.

“Wanna make out?” asks Pete. “I won’t ask any more questions about you or your life.”

“Yes,” Patrick says gratefully. Then: “And, um. If we take it slow with the questions—I’ll come to Thanksgiving with you.”

Pete leans in as if to kiss him, pauses just shy of contact. “Slow?” he murmurs. “Slow is a speed. Does that mean you’re planning to let me ask questions at a speed, one day, eventually?”

“Less talking,” Patrick growls, “more kissing.” He pulls Pete in, shutting him up with a kiss. It’s forceful and hot and rough with the edges they just discovered between them. Pete is all too happy to yield.

*

Patrick cannot fucking believe he is actually, legitimately begging off work to spend a holiday with a family. What has the world come to, really? What is he even _thinking_ these days?

Bebe appears to be wondering the same thing. Her arms are crossed under her menacing bosom, her red-and-leather suit ensemble making her look positively venomous. “You have never asked for Thanksgiving off before,” she’s saying, enunciating each word like a dagger. “Nor have you ever represented someone facing terrorism charges, on the stakes of _job retention_.”

“Right!” he says with false cheer, because what else can you do when you are clearly an insane person engaging in insane behaviors? “So you might say I’ve earned this one.”

“I cannot believe this,” Bebe says softly, as if to herself. She tilts her head to one side, squints at him. “Is this the thing Joe was telling me about? Is this about—your home life?”

Patrick’s heart does a swan dive into his stomach. He has no idea what she’s talking about, but he’s endured enough of Joe’s efforts to sabotage his career to know he needs to deny whatever comes out of Bebe’s mouth. “What? No,” he answers by reflex. “Joe is honestly so _sensitive_ , I worry that this job gets to him. Nothing dramatic is going on outside of work, Beebs. You know this job is my everything. It’s just—we got invited to my in-laws this year, and our son is getting old enough to really remember this stuff. I want to be there.” 

Bebe’s mouth quirks, and even her disdain is immaculate. “If you think it’s a good idea for you to be out of the office that day, I suppose I can’t stop you,” she says, her tone as icy as if she’d said _Here’s some rope, try not to hang from it._

“Best boss ever,” Patrick says, beaming at her like he means it. “Oh, and we’re staying the night, so I’ll be in late on Friday!” Bebe rolls her eyes, but she already said she can’t stop him. On his way back to his own office, he texts Pete a turkey emoji and _am I supposed to bring a casserole?_

 _no casserole_ , his phone buzzes before he’s made it to the bottom of the stairs. _but maybe bring some tiny underpants ;D_

And Patrick can’t help it. Now his grin is real.

He’s still smiling, somehow, when he picks up Pete and Bronx on Thursday morning. He keeps probing mistrustfully at his own happiness, poking at it like a bruise or a loose tooth, but he can’t find any pain. Somehow, hiring a man to be his husband on Craigslist and then developing feelings for him is… pretty straightforward. He buckles Bronx into the backseat while both Bronx and Pete try to give pointers, and they’re all laughing as they get on the road and head north, toward Wilmette.

Patrick doesn’t even really start to get nervous until they’re winding down nicer and nicer streets, bigger lawns and older trees, Audis and BMWs parked on the curb and Cadillacs in the driveways, and he interrupts the story Pete’s telling about some freelance shenanigan at work to ask anxiously, “Um, what kind of people are we about to meet, here?”

“My sister Hilary, her husband, their poodle. My mom and dad. My brother and probably the girlfriend of the week. Grandparents, some cousins, Hilary’s husband’s family, some aunts and uncles, maybe a few third cousins or step-relations that I won’t easily be able to explain my familial association with. You know—usual Thanksgiving stuff.”

Patrick becomes aware of how his blood feels, rushing through the narrow arterial corridors of his neck. “Um. Um,” he says, and his mouth tastes like oxidized copper. “That’s a lot of people, Pete.”

“Fewer than you’re used to in a courtroom,” Pete reassures him. “Pretend it’s court. A juried case with hostile witnesses!”

“You are not making me feel calmer,” Patrick points out.

“You’re supposed to be my meat shield. I’m going to use your handsomeness and your nice clothes to deflect importunate questions. _You_ can’t be nervous.”

“‘Meat shield’,” Patrick repeats unhappily.

Pete points down another tree-crammed boulevard. “Turn left up here. They’re going to love _you_. I bet they try to adopt you on sight. I told you my dad’s an attorney, right? _I’m_ the one who needs to worry.”

“Your dad is a _what_?” Patrick considers, briefly, the odds of Pete and Bronx’s survival if he runs the car off the road and, hopefully, flies through the windshield to his death. “In Cook County? Oh god. Pete. Tell me I don’t know your father from court, Pete. I need you to tell me I don’t know your father from court.”

Pete shrugs. “How am I supposed to know who you know from court? Technically he’s Peter Wentz the Second, but he goes by Roy. Have you faced Roy Wentz in court? He’s friends with Joe Biden. Here, it’s this one.”

Patrick is panicking on a molecular level. “This _extremely enormous one_?”

“Yeah. You can park in the driveway.”

Patrick parks slowly, carefully, taking measured breaths and trying not to lose his shit. He turns the car off and they just sit there for a few moments, staring straight ahead. “So you’re Peter Wentz the Third,” Patrick says.

“Yep.”

“And this giant house is where you grew up.”

“Yep.”

“And not only have I definitely faced your dad in court and probably pissed him off, but you also are personal friends with my scariest client.”

“ _Was_ personal friends with. Past tense. Though we were pretty tight, back in our bad boy days. Did I tell you about the time we used a ballpoint pen to give each other tattoos?” 

Patrick lets out a wordless squeak of agony. 

Unnecessarily, Pete says, “You really _are_ nervous.”

“Now why would you possibly think that? Because I’m out of my depth and league in every sense, and fake dating you is going to be career suicide if we ever fake break-up? We’re gonna have to get real married and live happily ever after, Pete, because I will never work in this town again if you leave me.” Jaw clenched, eyes wide with terror, Patrick stares straight ahead and speaks to the impassive front of the big Cape Cod style house, with grey shutters and a red door and an absolutely flawless front yard.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they know it’s my fault,” Pete says. He’s still laughing, though. He doesn’t get how serious this is for Patrick.

So Patrick tells Pete something he wasn’t planning on saying to anyone. “I haven’t celebrated a holiday since I turned 18.” He turns in his seat and forces himself to look Pete in the eye. The sweet, worried, stupidly handsome caramel-brown eye. “I didn’t plan on ever doing it again. So this is important to me, all right? It’s not a joke.”

Pete leans in and kisses Patrick full on the lips, as if to seal off his anxieties. “Babe. I have _so_ many follow-up questions,” Pete whispers.

“If you don’t leave me stranded in a million awkward situations in there, I will maybe, _maybe_ , consider answering them,” allows Patrick. “Some of them. One of them. Maybe.”

Pete brightens up like it’s Christmas, another ritualistic holiday Patrick won’t touch with a 12-foot pole. “Oh my god _yes_ ,” he whispers in awe. “This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. All shall be revealed to me at last!”

A sudden barrage of kicking the back of Pete’s seat interrupts Patrick’s torment. “Gramma Dale! I see Gramma Dale!” Bronx hollers. And the front door is opening, and a sternly dressed woman with a kind face is emerging, and Patrick is out of time.

“Well, _boyfriend,_ ” Pete says, squeezing Patrick’s arm, “you ready to meet my mom?”

Turns out Patrick’s literal years of training in the art of bullshit have perfectly prepared him for this kind of event. It helps, too, that Bronx is buzzing around him like Patrick is one of his favorite playthings. Bronx is showing off his family members, how much they adore him, and he’s showing Patrick off too. Patrick feels aligned with Pete, packaged in a set, as if Bronx is saying _all of the humans here are mine, but these two are the ones who come home with me_. Patrick feels overwhelmingly and abruptly like part of a family.

Good thing Pete’s dad is swift with refills to Patrick’s cranberry-and-champagne glass. Swift enough, in fact, that Patrick doesn’t need to think overly hard or long about anything he may or may not feel. He’s on a carousel of relations: he’s passed from great-aunt to great-aunt, cousin to brother to sister. Pete’s little brother is merry, easy to like. Pete’s sister seems to _want_ something from Patrick. Pete’s dad is blustery, many manly pats upon the shoulder, and pours champagne while saying horrifying things like: “Excellent work on the Anthonie case, really. My staffers put a picture of your face on the office dartboard—you won the case, but I got you right in the eyes. _Bam!_ Can’t wait to see what you do next, son. If you ever want a job at the S.A.’s office, well, don’t ask me! Ha! Can’t stand you, professionally! The topic of your firm’s ethics come up from time to time, Patrick, and now I’ll be able to tell my colleagues that your ethics really are entirely corrupt—after all, you’re dating _my_ son. Ha!”

Good thing Patrick’s flute has a leak in it, empties itself again and again. He tells different scraps of his and Pete’s fake history to different people, and Pete and Bronx flutter in and out at his side. Pete throws contradictions and plot twists into the stories he tells, his eyes gleaming like Pan with the reckless joy of it. Patrick is feeling very warm, like his sweater’s too tight. When he’s talking to Pete’s grandma, he gets his lies all tangled up, forgetting the timeline they’re pretending to be on and the delicate intersections between this lie and the one he’s been telling for years at work, and he says something about _that’s why I asked him to marry me_. Fuck, shit, and disaster: her glaucoma-yellow eyes get huge and she clutches Patrick’s bicep like she intends to pierce it and she says, “All I’ve ever wanted for Pete is for things to work out, even if it is with a homosexual,” and Patrick doesn’t have the bandwith to deal with _that_ so he just pleads, “We haven’t told anyone yet, you know, because this is my first time meeting the family? I’d be so grateful if you’d help us keep it a secret.” She winks at him and smiles her benignly homophobic smile and Patrick resolves to himself that he’ll stop drinking, sober up, and be extremely fucking careful about the words that come out of his mouth from here on out.

Then Roy appears with another magnum of champagne and tops Patrick off, saying gleefully, “I’ve been consulting with your opposing counsel on the Hurley case, you know. Strongly dissuading them from accepting that insulting settlement offer you wrote. You did write that, didn’t you? Ha! You should be _ashamed_ of that one, even though your firm isn’t capable of feeling shame! Ha!” And Patrick has no choice but to drain the glass, let Roy fill it anew. There doesn’t seem to be any cranberry juice going around anymore. His glass is clear and gold and bubbling, pure champagne.

He needs it, when Pete’s sister appears to start grilling him about how he and Pete met. He looks wildly around the room, trying to catch Pete’s eye, but Pete’s been cornered by his grandmother. He’s talking fast, shaking his head a lot, probably doing damage control. Patrick’s on his own with inventing their origin story, then. He’s trying to think of something cute but Hilary’s _staring_ at him with Pete’s eyes, and how hard should it be for Patrick to think of a nice story about love, or at least something nicer than _I hired your brother on Craigslist and I’m actually not sure whether Pete is paying me for tonight or if we are actually dating each other, our communication is not the best_ , and Hilary is looking at him like it must be something weird and sexual if he has to scramble for so long to come up with an acceptable answer, and because Patrick is an idiot he kind of panics and blurts out something true. 

“Um, well, Pete used to hook up with this guy from my office,” Patrick says,like a moron. Hilary’s face pops open with shock and delight, her pretty mouth that looks so like Pete’s forming an _O_. 

“Oh, _scandal_. Tell me everything,” Hilary says, her fingernails in Patrick’s arm suggesting it’s not really a request.

Patrick is so goddamn sweaty. It’s _really_ hot in here. Way too many people, even for a house this size. Double ovens both blazing for hours with different birds inside each. Way too much champagne. Patrick takes a big gulp from his flute. Roy never lets it get empty, so there’s no way to keep track of how much he’s had. Isn’t it time to _eat_ yet? Surely once they’re at the table, safe from this larger blur and whirl of family, Patrick will have Pete by his side to consolidate their story. Surely once they’re at the table Patrick will remember what human beings do with their hands.

“I’d see him sometimes,” Patrick says. Even he can hear how boring he sounds. “When he’d visit the other guy at work? And. Um. You know what Pete’s like.”

“I don’t,” Hilary says ravenously. “What _is_ Pete like?”

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and hopes most ardently to blink out of existence. When that doesn’t work, he says, “Impossibly good-looking. The first time I saw him, I was ruined. It didn’t matter how stupid it was, how bad an idea to go for him. I was—compelled. Against all sense and reason. I met him, and it was like I knew him by heart already. I knew if I spoke to him, I’d fall in love.”

“And so you wooed him away from the other guy?” Hilary’s eyes sparkle. 

“I wanted to avoid him permanently, actually. It was not my intent to fall in love. Pete is the _last_ thing I wanted or needed.” Patrick’s getting into the flow of the story now. Having a rapt audience feels kind of like being in court. He could monologue, a little; he could set up an argument, build a case. Let the real and genuine love between he and Pete become the only possible natural conclusion, elegant and spare, rather than a juried fiction. Patrick is so good at this he’s getting lost in his own lie. Or: Patrick is so bad at this he isn’t lying at all. “But we were talking at this work lunch—flirting, even, _maybe_ —and somehow our phones got swapped. Pete had left and gone home before I realized what happened. When he figured it out, he texted his own phone—texted me—though I don’t know how he knew my passcode, actually, I should ask him about that—and we ended up talking all night. By the time we met at a coffee shop to swap them back, we both wanted to know each other better. And I guess... we got a little carried away with one another after that.”

Hilary catches up Patrick’s hand in her own. Patrick thinks it’s because she’s so moved by the raw emotionality of his tale. What a fool he is. “ _Patrick_ ,” she whispers. “Holy _shit_. Are you wearing a _wedding ring_?”

Patrick is a little too drunk to recover from that one. Eloquently he says, “Oh, fuck,” and at that moment Pete’s mother appears at his elbow. Continuing the proud matrilineal tradition of taking Patrick’s arm hostage, she clamps his elbow in her own and announces, “Dinner is served. Patrick, I’ve been so busy in the kitchen we haven’t gotten to chat at all. You’ll sit beside me while we eat. I want to know everything about you.”

Pete appears on his other side at that moment, evidently remembering his promise not to strand Patrick is a sea of inquiry at last. “Momma,” he says, “give the poor man a break. I’ll never convince him to come back if you and dad spend the whole meal cross-examining him.”

Her eyebrow quirks sharp as a carving knife. Patrick tries to fumble the telltale ring off his finger and into his pocket, but his fingers are swollen into sausages by the heat and stressfulness of this crowded room. “My mother told me a rumor Patrick may be joining our family,” she says. Patrick considers fainting on the spot. “So I think it’s appropriate I get the chance to meet him properly. Tell me, Patrick, have you always wanted children?”

And over Pete’s protests and Patrick’s wordless horror, she sweeps Patrick away to the dining room on her arm.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tunes for my darlings](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LT4yacMwKS4sMsJCIDrJM)
> 
> Enjoy this sweetness--it is only temporary respite from bad decisions, worse communication, the stupidest of misunderstandings, and angst!

* * *

_all we have to do now_   
_is take these lies and make them true somehow_   
_all we have to see_   
_is that I don't belong to you_   
_and you don't belong to me_

* * *

Thanksgiving dinner and Pete’s not thinking about turkey and gratitude and colonialism, so much as the subject of his luck.

Lucky Patrick’s cute with rosy cheeks and a clumsy tongue, drunk and bumping Pete’s knee under the table, panicked and hissing into his ear _It is possible I led your grandmother to believe we are engaged_. Lucky he’s cute because he’s caused a real fucking situation for Pete with that one. Pete’s only ever managed to be married for four months and twenty-three days. They hadn’t even finished sending thank you cards from their shotgun wedding when Ashlee was gone. Just left one day and didn’t come back, and Pete didn’t even see her in court, because how do you serve divorce papers to someone who didn’t leave a forwarding address? Lucky Bronx was too young to really remember her. Lucky it was years still before he could formulate coherent emotional questions, and by then it was like he’d never learned the word for _mama_.

Anyway, it’s not like Pete can really be mad at Patrick for the slip-up. What did he do but invite Patrick to come here and lie? Come here and pretend to be something-and-someone to Pete that he’s not. It’s way too late to be picky about the _scale_ of the lie. Honestly, it’s getting so tangled between them, Pete’s having a hard time keeping track of who likes who how much—of what’s real and what’s pretend. Makes sense Patrick would mix up some details too. 

So they get through dinner, arms around each other and Bronx crawling back and forth between their laps, and it feels real enough for Pete. Feels worth it. The magic of make-believe, or maybe their real chemistry, casts a thick and warm glow like an amber-glass oil lamp over them both. By the time the meal is over, Patrick’s mouth is a magnet. His hips emit their own gravity. He keeps hooking his fingers under the waistband of Pete’s pants, stealing Pete’s breath and feeling Pete’s skin. Lucky, too, that they’re staying at Pete’s parents tonight: that instead of a sobering drive back into the city, Pete will put Bronx down in a room of his own and then lead Patrick to his childhood bedroom, press him down onto a twin mattress with He-Man sheets. Lucky that they get to lay together in the dark alone, so that Pete can ask him _what the hell were you thinking_ and Patrick can lick the incredulity off Pete’s tongue. 

Nights like this, Pete feels made of luck.

Massive amounts of carbs seem to have absorbed most of what Patrick’s been drinking tonight, because he’s clear-eyed when Pete shows him into his bedroom, and his fingers are plenty agile on the buttons of Pete’s clothes. That’s lucky too, because Pete’s had entirely too much waiting.

“Hold on, slow down,” he laughs, catching Patrick’s hand. Pleasure uncurls in his gut, warm and spreading—the feeling of being _wanted_. With hook-ups, the sense of want is a generic one: any abs, any ass, any dick will do, just let me run my hands over _some_ thing. Patrick’s eyes dazzle at him, Patrick sways his hips back and forth over Pete’s belt, and Pete feels wanted in an incredibly specific way. “Let’s, like, debrief before you debrief me. How was tonight for you?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, flings himself dramatically back onto one of the twin beds in Pete’s room. “Ugh!” he cries, throwing a hand over his eyes. Still a little drunk, then. “I’m sorry about the thing with your grandma, okay? And your sister. And your mom. I’m sorry about all of the things, and I will understand completely if we have to have an entire fake wedding now.”

Pete sits down on the bed next to his floppy, dramatic sort-of boyfriend. “Tonight was an unmitigated disaster, _and_ I think we stuck the landing. No, I’m asking like—how are you feeling about, like, family holiday stuff? You said some heavy things in the car before all the champagne and mingling started.”

“So much champagne,” Patrick agrees, voice muffled by his own hand. “So much mingling.”

“C’mon,” says Pete, grabbing Patrick by the thigh and shaking him. “Talk to me. Was tonight weird for you?”

“Are you kidding? Of course—”

“I mean, beyond the thing where we’re pretending to mean more to each other than we do. I’m asking about your _personal life_ , Patrick. Your _inner thoughts and dark history_.”

Patrick peeks at Pete between his fingers, suddenly serious. “This is your one question, then? This is what you wanna ask?”

Pete leans in close and very deliberately bites Patrick’s thigh. Through Patrick’s khakis, he takes a giant chomp of full, firm flesh. Patrick cries out in offense and Pete says with dignity, “That is for being a butt. And I _will_ bite you again if you aren’t emotionally vulnerable with me, right now.”

Patrick grips the back of Pete’s neck, holding his head in place. Patrick wriggles down the bed, moving his body under Pete’s trapped teeth. When he’s holding Pete’s mouth between his legs, so Pete can feel Patrick’s hardness on his chin, so Pete’s mouth practically waters—when he has Pete exactly where he wants him, Patrick says, “Or.”

“Or?” Pete’s mouth moves over the heat of Patrick’s dick. Khakis have never looked so good.

“Or we could find other ways to be vulnerable.” With his other hand, Patrick reaches down and thumbs open the button on his pants. His knuckles knock Pete’s cheek as he undoes his zipper. Pete leans into it, fist to cheekbone, nuzzling towards any kind of pressure-and-release.

Patrick’s cock springs free and Pete admits about himself that he is desperately thirsty. He wants to fill his mouth with that big, beautiful thing more than he wants to know about Patrick’s past. More than he wants emotional connection. More than he wants to know how much of what’s between them is real. God, all he wants in _life_ right now is to suck on Patrick’s dick.

The underwear has got to go. “Can I?” Pete asks, fingertips dragging at Patrick’s waistband. Patrick nods, his eyes slow-blink steel, and lifts his hips. Pete pulls his briefs down and lets out a tiny breathless sigh of _finally_ when the taut red length of Patrick is at last before him. That glorious, holy grail dick stands proud and tall enough to cast a shadow, stretching up towards Patrick’s belly, framed by close-cropped golden brown pubic hair and hard, tight balls. Pete’s—yes—his mouth literally waters. It’s not the first dick he’s seen by the yellow shaded Star Wars lamp of his childhood bedroom, but damn if it’s not the prettiest.

His fingers dig into Patrick’s hipbones and he lifts his head to lick it, a long stroke of his tongue that catches on the sensitive ridge of the head. Patrick shudders, letting out a soft moan. “This okay?” Pete whispers. 

Patrick answers by pushing Pete’s head back down.

Pete’s whole body aches, his mouth clumsy with greed, but he wants to take his time with this. He takes Patrick into his mouth slowly, tentatively; he feels Patrick’s hips twitch beneath him as his teeth just barely scrape the shaft. He sees how much of Patrick he can take at once, then pulls back to suck just the velvety head, tonguing the cleft—then he surges back down, taking all that thickness into his throat, curling around the joyfulness of this. Of making _this_ man groan and writhe. Of being good at what he does. Of feeling like a cord pulled taut and plucked, vibrating, made of resonance and want. Of all the bullshit and make believe between them, and then this one fast hard pleasure, this deep true thing of heartbeats and humping that can not be mistaken for anything but _real_.

Pete’s trying to go slow, but Patrick’s hips keep changing the tempo. His cheeks ache in the best way. Pete’s guts are a snarl of impatience: wanting to taste the satisfaction of Patrick’s come, wanting to drag out this moment forever. Patrick’s fingernails bite into the back of his neck and he thrusts overeager, overhard into Pete’s mouth, and way too soon, before Pete’s prepared for it, Patrick seizes up and starts to come. Hotbitter salt surges into Pete’s mouth, Pete’s throat, and Patrick pulls out without warning so the rest of it arcs wet and shining into the air, raining down on Pete’s childhood bedroom, Pete’s scruffy cheek, Pete’s hair.

“Oh, shit! I’m sorry!” Patrick cries, which, for the record, is not the _first_ thing Pete longs to hear after performing oral on someone. “I was trying to—I didn’t mean—”

Pete holds up a hand that he sincerely hopes will silence Patrick. “Dude,” he says, wiping come off his face with his sleeve, “it’s fine. Help me clean it out of my hair.”

Patrick is blushing so red it’s purple. He looks around for something to clean Pete with and ends up dragging a corner of the He-Man bedspread ineffectually across Pete’s head. “I didn’t think you’d want it in your mouth,” he says, mortified. 

Pete moves up the bed and kisses Patrick as sloppily as he can manage. “That I liked. Didn’t need it on the ceiling, though.”

Patrick scoots away from the wet parts of the bedspread, to the extent that’s possible—when Pete’s mother does the laundry, well, her opinion of Pete will surely be maintained—and hides his face with a pillow. Pete half-curls up beside him on the narrow bed and tries to cheer him up. “Don’t worry, I’ll take the damages out of your evening’s wages,” he jokes.

Patrick peeks over one edge of the pillow. “Wait. Are you kidding? I met 90 people tonight. I want the full fee. Can I pay for damages with questions answered?”

Pete touches the rapidly cooling wetness still clumped in his hair. His hand comes back sticky and gleaming. He shows it to Patrick. “I want three questions.”

Patrick snuggles closer to him, naked from the waist to the knees, and nods in agreement. “But I get veto power.”

“One veto.”

“Two vetoes!”

“Deal.” Pete offers his semen-y hand, but for some mysterious reason, Patrick doesn’t shake it. Now that Pete has been given this bounty, he doesn’t know how to spend it. It’s like with genies: you really need to prepare your wishes in advance, or you’re going to be overwhelmed when it finally happens.

Still half-hard and sex-addled, he wastes his first question on a spasm of guilt. “You’ve—done this with a guy before, right?”

Patrick gives him a truly withering look. “No, Peter, that was actually my first time coming on someone’s entire head.” 

“Real answers! I want real answers,” Pete protests.

Patrick half-sits, squirms with very little dignity back into his briefs. “Fine,” he huffs. “Yes, I have done this with a guy before. Though I’m a little hurt that I seem like such an embarrassing virgin you had to ask.”

“No, it’s just—I want to be careful with you,” Pete says, and it’s too true, it makes them both feel awkward. “Ummm anyway. Question two. How old were you when you went into foster care?”

Patrick’s eyes are narrow, ice blue slits. “Veto.”

Pete bites off his own frustration. Of course the things that seem most important are the ones Patrick is going to veto. Here’s Pete’s whole life, family, and long list of humiliations, open to Patrick; and here’s Patrick, the Fort Knox of personal information.

“Okay. What about: do you ever want an actual family, or is the plan to be a bachelor forever?”

Patrick frowns. “Veto. That’s not even about my past.”

“Uh… did you grow up with siblings? You seem like a natural with Bronx.”

“I don’t want to answer that either,” Patrick says, even though that’s against the rules and he’s out of vetoes.

Exasperated by the way every sweet moment between them seems to grow thorns as soon as Pete tastes sugar on his tongue, Pete says something he does not mean. “Well, fuck, Patrick. What _am_ I allowed to know about you? Is everything about you fake?”

Patrick regards him coldly for a long moment. It gives Pete plenty of time for regret. “I was four, okay? And yeah, that _is_ old enough to remember what it’s like, to have a family. So no. I don’t want one. And one’s never wanted me.”

Pete, the biggest idiot in the world, has no idea what to say now. He has the sense ‘I’m sorry’ is a good start, but before he can say it, Patrick snaps, “Stop it! I hate the way you’re looking at me right now.” He slides away from Pete, gets off the bed, gets tangled in his own pants, kicks them off in tightly controlled fury, and then sits down on the other twin bed in his nice shirt and his underwear and his sex-rumpled hair, scowling at Pete.

‘I’m sorry’ still seems appropriate, but no longer wanted. “I think I was a jerk just then,” Pete says cautiously.

Patrick’s shoulders slump. “No,” he says. “You weren’t. You’re a normal human being and you want to know things about me. Which, for the record, is one of the innumerable reasons I don’t do relationships. People give you that _look_ when they know you’re a foster kid. _Oh you poor pitiful orphan, what happened to you? Was it grisly? Was it tragic? Are your parents dead? Were you abused? Did they lock you in a cabinet? Are they crazy, are they addicts, were you born addicted to drugs? Oh you’re so damaged. Oh it must have been awful for you._ I just—don’t want that to be what defines me. I put it behind me and I don’t look back. I wish I’d never told you.”

Pete very much wants to go sit on the other bed with Patrick, but he’s worried that will make it seem like he’s pitying Patrick. He crosses his legs and looks across the room at Patrick. “I won’t look at you like that again,” he says.

“Thanks.”

Patrick still looks miserable. Maybe Pete can distract him somehow? “Uh, if you want, I’ll tell you more embarrassing shit about me?”

“Pete. That’s not gonna make me feel better. Don’t take this the wrong way? But you kind of have the perfect life.”

That, Pete is expecting even less than the new ejac hairdo. Pete’s life is a disaster, always. Patrick’s accomplished, successful, independent, has never been divorced… He thinks about what Patrick shared, thinks about the way Ashlee left him without warning and how it has felt to him ever since. It’s not the same, but Pete guesses that feeling is something they have in common. 

“Oh,” is all Pete can say. He’s never thought about someone wanting what he has. “It would be more perfect with you in it.”

Patrick studies him for a long moment. His furrowed brow could mean anything. Then Patrick heaves a great sigh and flings himself back on the narrow mattress, which creaks in protest. “You mean it, or are we still just saying shit for money?”

“Of course I mean it.” Pete doesn’t know how to say _Actually the only part of me that isn’t true is the factual misinformation._ He tries, badly: “This isn’t, like, fake news.”

Patrick aims a bark of laughter at the ceiling. “Okay. Then get over here.”

Pete almost looks over his shoulder, because Patrick can’t be talking to him.

“You! Wentz! Get over here!”

Pete walks tentatively to the edge of Patrick’s bed. “Yeah?”

Patrick reaches for him. “We were having a fun, sexy moment, and I ruined it.”

“You didn’t—“

“I crapped all over it like a Canada goose and we both know it. So what I’d like is for you to get in bed with me.”

“And what?”

“And see if we can’t defile this bedspread too.”

Well. Pete’s not saying no to the chance to come on He-Man’s face. Talk about a lifelong dream fulfilled! He lets Patrick pull him down against his chest, and they touch and taste and feel each other more earnest than any apology.

*

Like an idiot, Patrick actually feels pretty happy when he strolls into work at noon the next day. 

Bronx wanted to play _I Spy With My Little Eye_ (the full title must always be used; Patrick learned this quickly) the whole drive back into the city, and it was legitimately fun, Pete and Patrick sharing discreet eye rolls over Bronx’s more obvious attempts cheating and the three of them laughing together. Not unlike a family. Breakfast that morning with Pete’s parents wasn’t bad either. Patrick was much calmer after making a complete ass of himself on the first go-round and then picking a huge fight with Pete: the stakes seemed lower. On top of all that, what he and Pete got up to the night before… It’s been a long time. It felt _awesome_.

Maybe it’s just orgasms, but Patrick feels—a sense of well-being, enveloping not just his person, but everything he touches. The whole city feels happy and welcoming on Black Friday. Like King Midas, he feels that good will spreading to everything he touches. For the first time in living memory, Patrick has the general sense that everything is going to more or less be okay.

It’s _weird_. It is highly unusual. Patrick kind of likes it.

*

Joe chooses his moment with the care of any spider waiting in a web. He _will_ wrest a confession from Patrick. He _will_ see Patrick break. He will compromise Patrick so thoroughly that Bebe and the senior partners never think _Stump_ and _promotion_ in the same sentence ever again. 

And he will do all of this using nothing more advanced than a picture of a dick.

He positions himself in one of the paralegal offices, one that Stump will have to walk past whenever he deigns to show up for work today. And he waits.

Patrick finally comes in around noon, and he looks so goddamn happy that Joe wants to smash him. Joe gives him ten minutes to settle in and then oozes down the hall to Patrick’s dismal windowless office, and that’s when he strikes.

“Knock knock,” Joe says, sickly-sweet, sticking his head in Stump’s door. “Hope I’m not interrupting. I just wanted to check on you, see how you’re doing with everything.” He makes his voice soft and sticky as taffy, gooey and saccharine with concern they both know is fake.

Stump regards him with open mistrust. “Whatever you’re here to do, Joe, I’m actually having a nice day right now? So I’d like you to leave.”

Joe takes this as an invitation and enters the office fully, alighting on the arm of one of Patrick’s client chairs. He presses a hand over his heart and simpers. “You really are so brave. I can hardly imagine what a wreck I’d be in your position.”

“I know you want me to ask you what you’re talking about, but Joe, today I do not care. Can I put you on my calendar for a petty argument on Monday?”

Joe is put-off by Stump’s refusal to engage. After all his careful planning! Really, some people have no respect for hard work. Still, he persists. “Oh, I see,” he says. He pulls big Bambi eyes and drops his voice to a whisper. “Is it too hard to talk about right after the holidays?”

Stump snaps the file he’s got open in front of him shut. “ _Fine_. If taking the bait gets you out of my office faster, I’ll do it. Hit me.”

Joe leans forward conspiratorially. “I just thought you might be struggling with being back at work, now that the whole office knows your devoted husband has been fucking one of the interns.”

Finally, at long last, gratification! Patrick’s face goes grey and flat like lockjaw. The tendons in his neck stand out like rebar. Joe feels a bloom of deep, enduring happiness spread through his belly. He feels like he’s in court cross-examining a suspect right now. There’s nothing he loves more than springing a well-executed trap.

“Unless you’re not upset?” Joe goes on. “Unless this is all totally kosher under the terms of your arrangement with Pete, because this entire time your so-called marriage has been a shameless and transparent lie you told to suck up to Bebe and steal promotions from your more deserving coworkers, such as me?”

And he slides his phone, open to a _very_ salacious photograph of Pete’s nether regions, embedded in a date-stamped chat window, across Patrick’s desk. _Boom_. Denouement delivered, coup executed, mic dropped.

 _Something_ is happening on Patrick’s face. Joe, usually very good at reading people, is confused by what it is. Because Patrick looks—well, he looks _hurt_. Not in the face—his jaw is clenched tighter than most butts—but in the eyes. Surely he’s just hurt that he’s been caught out in his scheme? Surely he’s not really married to Pete. Joe wishes he’d put one of the firm’s investigators on this. Sure, it’s a minor ethical breach, but that kind of shit happens on lawyer TV dramas all the time. Now he’s just putting together minute-by-minute data like he’s a fresh-from-the-Ivys newbie.

With perfect control, Stump reaches across his desk and clicks the lock button on the side of Joe’s phone. He clears his throat. “I feel sorry for you,” he says coldly, but his tone’s off. For years they’ve been rivals and Joe’s never heard Stump speak like this—with a total lack of conviction. “You understand so little—” and he has to clear his throat again, to cover his voice breaking— “about marriage. Pete and I have an open relationship, _not_ that it’s your business. It’s very common among established gay couples. Pete can send pictures of whatever he wants to whoever he wants. He’s not _mine_. I don’t have any right to—any right to him.” Joe’s not imagining it: Stump’s eyes have filled with tears. He blinks ferociously. “Now please tell me how far you’ve spread these infidelity rumors and pictures of _my real, actual husband’s_ _genitals_ so I can do some damage control.”

Joe has no idea what fascinating thing he’s witnessing right now, but he thinks—yes—he is too interested in this development to press his advantage. He doesn’t swoop in for the kill. Instead he gathers himself and stands with dignity, straightens his jacket. “An excellent topic for you to discuss with Bebe,” he says. “She wanted me to tell you. You’re having a one-on-one this afternoon. The partners are concerned about the extent to which marital issues appear to be affecting your work.” In the doorway he hesitates. “It’s a shame you’re so adamant Pete’s your ‘real, actual husband.’ I imagine it would go a great way to settle the senior partners’ unease if they knew this whole messy personnel situation could simply be… terminated.”

Okay, so he swooped a _little_ bit. A man has to let himself have a little fun sometimes. Joe leaves Patrick’s office on a cloud of good will, suffused with the feeling all is right in the world. It’s how he usually feels. He’s so glad everything is back on track, exactly the way it should be.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies! I was gonna post this yesterday but I got food poisoning??? super fun, lotsa vomit, yippee. Don't forget [the story playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LT4yacMwKS4sMsJCIDrJM), and check out the silly moodboards I added to past chapters!

* * *

_Oh, if all that you say is true_  
_There'll be no getting over you_  
_So beat down playing by your rules_  
_If you're a joker then I'm a fool_  
_I guess there's no catching up to you_

* * *

Patrick rationalizes.

The date on that screenshot—hell.

What he said to Joe is true, isn’t it? Pete  _ isn’t _ his. Never has been. It’s not like they ever said what they are to each other. It’s not like they ever said exclusive. It’s not like Patrick is doing the backbreaking work of confronting childhood trauma to learn how to build trust and tolerate emotional and physical intimacy  _ while Pete is sending people pictures of his junk only hours after Patrick invites him up to his apartment, the first ever living human who has ever had that privilege— _

Patrick  _ knew _ about Pete and Mikey. Like he told Joe. He even told Pete it was okay, that he hoped fake-dating Patrick didn’t screw anything up—

Fuck. Is he going to throw up?

Bebe will be in his office soon, delighted as a cat that’s cornered a mouse, trying to fire him just because she’s bored. He ate waffles with Pete’s  _ mother _ this morning. He had that very same d from the pictures in his  _ mouth _ last night.

Oh, god. That feeling in his throat isn’t his gorge rising, isn’t bile. It’s fucking  _ tears _ . Absolutely not. No. He hasn’t cried in years. He refuses to remember what it feels like.

He’s gotten carried away, that’s all. Carried away by how good it felt to pretend. Because it was always pretend. Right? It only hurts like this because he’s surprised.

He pulls out his phone and his hands are shaking. Numbly he sends off a text to Pete. It reads  _ I think you should pay me for thanksgiving. _

Then he sits and waits for Bebe to come down the hall, heels clacking like the hooves of the devil, Ride of the Valkyries playing in his heartbeat, which is conveniently on loudspeaker in his ears.

When his phone buzzes on his desk Patrick jumps like it’s a gunshot.

Pete’s sent a goddamn winking emoji. Patrick realizes with slow, cold horror that Pete thinks he’s flirting. Words follow:  _ yeah u were pretty good… u do deserve… a tip _

Yes. Okay. Death is an option. Death is always an option, right? Patrick’s blood thunders. His ears roar. With less control between thumbs-and-keyboard than certain luminaries on Twitter, Patrick’s texting back. The words are stiff, so stiff, but there’s nothing he can do.  _ I wasn’t aware the situation with Mikey was ongoing. Joe just informed me.  _

He bites his tongue to enjoy some fizz of feeling in all this numb, all this stun. But it just hurts.

_ oh shit _ , comes the immediate response.

And:  _ fuck fuck fuck _

And:  _ patrick _

And:  _ i’m so sorry _

Bebe has appeared as if summoned by the scent of suffering. She knocks on the doorframe sweetly, unaware Patrick is experiencing a personal earthquake. Patrick holds up one shaking finger. While Bebe frowns in disapproval, he texts,  _ There’s nothing to apologize for. It’s not like this was real. But this has become professionally complicated for me. Let’s settle up—I’m out. _

Then he drops his phone deep into his bottom drawer, where three years of poorly maintained paper files will muffle all vibration and, if he’s lucky, vanish it forever. He kicks the drawer shut with his polished wingtip, harder than he needs to, and smiles at Bebe with real calm.

“Bebe,” he says, “there’s something I need to come clean about.”

*

Thirteen hundred dollars in cash doesn’t look like much. The paper money feels greasy and inadequate in his hand. It’s everything that was in his account. It’s so much less than Patrick deserves. It’s all he has to offer.

Pete stuffs the bills back into the bank envelope, folds it up and shoves it deep into his pocket. Bronx takes three cherry suckers from the cup on the teller’s desk, beaming. Pete takes a pineapple one, because fuck it: he needs something sweet.

He’s going to get the money to Patrick and think of an apology that can possibly encompass his regret. He’s going to make a beautiful, Hugh-Grant-at-the-end-of-the-movie speech. He’s going to declare himself as vulnerably and patiently as he possibly can and beg Patrick to date him for real, the debt between them settled, the playacting done.

He’s going to do all that. He is. But Pete’s not stupid. Pete knows that won’t mean shit to Patrick. Thirteen hundred dollars is toilet paper to someone with Patrick’s wealth. Pretty words and pledges are what he gave up on at age 18 and never wanted to hear again. No, if Pete has any hope at all of making this up to Patrick?

He needs to give Patrick something real.

So against every ounce of his better judgment—which is like, at least two and a half ounces of judgment—Pete does something reckless and desperate and insane.

Pete calls his old friend Andy Hurley.

Turns out Andy’s pretty bored being a police suspect who can’t leave the state. He’s all too happy to meet.

Public, Pete decides. Meet in public with the dangerous sociopath, not at home with his four year old. He asks Andy to meet him at the library branch with the best kids’ section, the one where Bronx will wander into the center play area to build train tracks with other kids and they can have a conversation with at least some semblance of privacy.

Still, he’s nervous. Wilderness was not exactly the highlight of his life. He acts like it doesn’t touch him, like he’s made of brass and leading with the jaw. He lets his parents think they’re right about him. He hooks up with strangers like he never wanted a fairy tale ending. But the reality is that getting outed at school by someone he trusted and loved, the entire town of Wilmette seeing him young, skinny, naked, and then getting thrown out of his house to go live rough among kids with conduct disorders like  _ gay _ was just as bad as  _ starting fires _ or  _ hard drugs  _ or  _ bringing knives to school _ —

He just doesn’t really like to think about it, okay?

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t recognize Andrew J. Hurley until he sits down at the mini table across from Pete, graceful and smooth in the understated way of extreme wealth. Or maybe it’s just that Andy doesn’t look anything like the dorky, long-haired, Star Wars-obsessed delinquent Pete remembers. He’s dressed casually in black slacks and a black sweater, whorls of tattoo plating the hollow of his throat in armor, and he smells like the inside of a private plane, or a humidor, or an Armani cologne bottle. His hair is shaved up the sides and back, crisp as if he’s just come from the barber. His face is shaved straight-razor close. He looks  _ clean _ , sanitized and clinical. There’s not a speck of lint, a stray hair, or a wrinkle anywhere on him. When he smiles, his teeth are white and sharp.

“Hey, Pete,” he says, and his voice shatters the illusion. He’s not a shark; he’s the same slightly nasal metalhead with a comic collection Pete met when he was seventeen. Pete doesn’t notice how tense his body is until the moment it relaxes.

“Andy!” he says, and he’s not faking the warmth. He reaches across the table, clasps Andy’s forearm in an approximation of a hug. “Wow. It’s good to see you.”

Andy looks Pete over the same way you’d eye the offerings in a butcher case. Pete feels, queasily, the impression of shrink wrap on his skin. But Andy’s smile puts him at ease. “It’s been a long time,” Andy says softly. “What are the chances you’d call me when I happened to be in town?”

Pete recognizes that this is a test. He stumbles over his words in his rush to be honest. “I knew you were here. Patrick told me.”

Andy’s smile is small and antiseptic. He keeps giving Pete rope, sees if he hangs himself. “Oh?”

Pete rubs the back of his neck, feeling heat crawl up it. “Yeah, uh. We’ve been sort of dating, sort of in a business relationship? So we’re on a date, I think it was a date, and he starts telling me about this case he’s working. Crazy stuff about this guy blowing up his own company’s work site, causing probably a million dollars’ property loss and bringing production to a complete halt—”

“2.3 million in property. At least 7 mil since in lost work product and investors cashing out, and a couple mil more each week the site’s cordoned off for investigation.”

“Yeah. Uh, exactly. But then he slips up, mentions your dad’s name, and all of a sudden light bulbs go off for me. He had no way of knowing I could put the pieces together, trace it all to you.”

“Then he shouldn’t have been talking about me at all, should he? Lawyer-client communications are privileged. I could sue for breach in confidentiality.”

“Yeah, but who would represent you?” Pete cracks a grin, feeling his skin prickle. “I mean,  _ I _ wouldn’t take on a client who was suing his last attorney, would you?”

Cool relief floods Pete when Andy chuckles. “Fair point. But if your sweetheart’s been filling your head with bedtime stories starring me as the boogeyman, why contact me? Not a lot of people have the number you called. I was surprised to hear that phone ring.”

Pete pushes up the sleeve of his flannel, showing the blown out remains of the stick-and-poke tattoo Andy gave him over a decade ago, using a Bic lighter for sterilization and a broken ballpoint pen for a tool. It’s nestled in the veined ditch of his elbow, that tender thoroughfare that throbs with life. It takes a lot of trust to let a banished teenager stab you there. “Not a lot of people have one of these either,” he says.

With quick, measured movements, Andy folds his sweater sleeve over itself neatly, revealing inch after inch of ink-soaked forearm til he reveals the sparse outline of Pete’s handiwork. The lines are indistinct, now, scarred and healed over. All around the marks, Andy’s arms are richly tattooed, fine detail and vibrant color: but instead of all that making the old stick-and-poke seem impoverished, it haloes it in a sacred circle, like it’s more important than all the rest. 

That arm is the unintentional twin of Pete’s.

The mark they share is a tree, or it once was. A gnarled old sentinel of the forest, a vast red cedar with a wide, ancient trunk, ridged and smoothed with impossible growth over an impossible span of time. They slept under trees like that in Kootenai National Park, eight feet wide and 400 years old. Whatever tree they slept under became their guardian: bigger and older and more stable than they could comprehend, it was their windbreak and their shelter, their canopy and their cradle. It was a symbol of their friendship and their trust. The inked-in promise to have each other’s back, no matter what they were up against. 

“That was a long time ago,” says Andy.

“I fucked up with Patrick,” Pete says. A sudden bleat of vulnerability. “That’s why I called you. I thought that maybe if I helped with the case somehow, I could... redeem myself.”

“Same old Pete, then. Always hung up on redemption.”

“And you never were. I never got that. All I wanted was to be allowed home.”

“I still don’t understand how you could be satisfied with so little. You’re like me, Pete. You evolved beyond the place that made you—they proved that when they cast you out. Why would someone with your potential ever want to go backwards? Your family is a corrupt and broken system. To me that begs for revolution.”

This is all a bit much for Pete. Maybe Bronx can sense that, because he chooses that moment to shriek at full, non-library volume: “DAD! Look! My train goed SMASH!”

“Whoa, buddy! That’s so cool!” Pete calls back, earning a glare from the children’s librarian. Why do all children’s librarians come equipped with glasses on a chain and a withering glare anyway? If you expect quiet, respectful rule-following, four year olds are not your crowd. In Pete’s experience, the majority of a four year old’s repertoire is loud, adorably conjugated smashing.

“Listen, dude, you sound crazy,” Pete says out of the corner of his mouth to Andy. “I just want your help convincing your lawyer to be my boyfriend. You’ve got no reason to help me with that, except—” Pete taps his tattoo and shrugs one shoulder, like it doesn’t matter much. It matters tremendously.

“People are just throwing the word ‘crazy’ around lately, you notice that?” Andy mutters. His face contracts with annoyance, the first crack in his gentlemanly veneer. Weirdly, it makes Pete feel more relaxed. Like the situation is suddenly predictable. Like humans, even strange and scary ones, are easy to understand.

Like Pete understands any of it, up to and including himself.

Pete pulls his sleeve back down, casual. He tucks the end of the sleeve into his palm, makes a fist; the tension of fabric-over-wrist is soothing. He has nothing more to say. He waits.

Andy reaches up and tugs his fingers through his perfectly smoothed curls, releasing the smell of whatever pomade he uses to paste them to his head as he messes it all up. His crocodile teeth shine somewhere between a glower and a smile. “What do you think I can do here, Pete?”

Pete watches Bronx tug a y-shaped train track away from another kid, whose face crumples in dismay. Bronx immediately hands the track back, already knowing what his dad still hasn’t learned: if what you’re doing is hurting somebody, you can just stop.

“You don’t trust Patrick, right? You’re making his life harder by withholding information from him that he probably needs to be able to effectively argue your case, because you get some kind of amusement out of watching him squirm?”

Andy blinks slow like a cat. “I assume you’ve made him squirm. You know how rewarding his reactions are.”

Pete is flooded by the sudden, sensory memory of Patrick’s hips beneath his, trapped and pushing back, the friction and pleasure and need of that movement, the indecencies they performed in Pete’s childhood bed. His face is not the only part of his body that gets hot. “Maybe you can trust me instead. Maybe I can be—a liaison. You can give me information you’re withholding for pleasure, and I can bring it to Patrick and—”

“And he’s so dazzled by your legal acumen that he forgives you for the three days it takes you to screw it up again? I remember how you are. How many boys did you go through this with before Wilderness? How many since?” Andy’s face is neutral, but his words are designed to sting. He’s using a map he made years ago to find Pete’s weak spots, filling in the blanks to calculate what will hurt Pete most.

But no amount of smugness, sociopathy, or wealth can make up for the life Pete’s lived. For the love he’s had, and lost. For the son he’s grown. Andy doesn’t know anything about him. He hasn’t been a scared, self-destructive kid under a cedar tree in a long time.

“I don’t think you did it,” Pete says, suddenly inspired, guessing wildly. “I think you wish you did.”

There’s a flicker in Andy’s eye. A terrible, reptilian stillness. Pete stumbles ahead, his tongue working faster than his head and heart combined. 

“I think you’re taking credit for an accident, using it to cripple your dad’s company and stall operations. That’s it, isn’t it? Your big plan is to act creepy in front of everyone until the workers’ families demand such an exorbitant settlement that it shuts your dad down for good. And you’ll think you’re Robin Hood while you do it, instead of a self-satisfied privileged kid who only ever pretended to be badass. We both know your dad doesn’t matter. Someone else will pick up the mantle of large-scale corporate pollution and Amazonian deforestation and emissions warfare. You have so much fucking wealth at your disposal, Andy; maybe instead of casting yourself as a sexy, exciting villain and throwing your resources and influence down the drain, you should find the fucking courage to use all that power to do something  _ good _ .”

For a moment, there is silence in the library. That ill-tempered children’s librarian is still glaring at him, but she’s doing it with open curiosity now. Pete and Andy just became more interesting than scowling at the joy of children.

“I hope,” Andy says slowly, “you aren’t planning to tell your boyfriend  _ that _ .”

“So give me something else to tell him,” Pete says. “If I tell him you’re innocent, your plan falls apart. Patrick will want to rescue you. He’ll stop drafting settlements and start preparing for trial. You weren’t really planning on facing life in prison, were you?” 

Andy is trembling, ever so slightly, with barely contained and terrifying rage. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And neither do you. We  _ aren’t _ the same. None of the shit you did ever stuck to you. You don’t know yet about consequences.”

Bronx comes running over, rosy-cheeked and out of breath and completely oblivious to the fact that Pete and Andy are having a Tense Moment. “Daddy! You are taking for _ ever _ . You are taking for a very long time. Come play trains with me! This is boring.”

Pete scoops up his kid, who immediately starts squirming for freedom and laughing more loudly than any librarian can tolerate. “You’re right, B. It is boring. Let’s play.”

And he walks away from his old-friend-slash-dangerous-criminal, one he does not doubt is capable of committing the type of violence he’s been accused of, and hopes like hell he hasn’t just made Patrick’s life much, much worse.

*

Joe tries to be as nonchalant as possible. It’s 7:30 at night and he’s still at work, but what else is new? This is his life. This is what it is to be an attorney with influence in Chicago. And by god, he will stay as late as he needs to in order to destroy Patrick. Patrick and any bastard who thinks he’s entitled to a personal life and downtime  _ and _ the same rewards as Joe is earning with his labor.

Joe stops in Bebe’s open doorway, his arms full of files, and tries to soften his face in concern. “Hey, how’d it go with Stump earlier?”

Bebe’s not fooled for a second. “You’re like a shark that smells blood in the water. Down, boy.”

Joe pouts in what he hopes is a boyish, charming way. “So I want to gossip about my rival’s misfortunes. Sue me.”

Bebe’s nails are bubblegum pink today. She studies them in a way designed to convey to Joe he is less worthy than a chip in her polish. “Not that it’s your business, but based on what Patrick told me today? It wouldn’t kill you to have a little compassion.”

“So he told you something interesting,” Joe concludes. He doesn’t try to hide the gleam in his eye. Bebe already knows he’s a shark. 

Bebe smirks at him. She points at the tall, ornate cabinet in the corner of her office. “Make me a martini first if you’re going to pump me for information.”

Ugh. Every other thing out of Bebe’s mouth makes Joe want to take a shower. But he plays along. Business flirting is a long, proud political tradition. There’s nothing you can do but play the game. He feels her calculating gaze on him while he measures out gin and vermouth into a highball glass. There’s no olives, no lemon—this isn’t a liquor cabinet, it’s a file cabinet of essential workplace supplies. Joe considers the glass for a moment, then makes it a double. 

“Fix yourself something too,” Bebe instructs before he can carry the finished drink back to her. The options are limited. He pours himself a couple fingers of bourbon, delivers her martini, and wanders over to Bebe’s windows. Outside the floor-to-ceiling panes, Chicago gleams. The behemoths of the Loop arc violently into the night sky, towers of glass and steel and ambition, lit up bright enough to choke out starlight. The skyline’s like a maw of jagged teeth rising to rip the world in two, but Joe always finds the view comforting—like a cold embrace.

So yeah. He’s gonna do everything in his power to secure a window office, and punish a work-shy layabout while he’s at it. Joe takes a bracing sip of Bebe’s fancy imported bourbon and wonders what angle to take, here.

“Wow, look at the moon,” Joe says, gesturing out the window with his glass. “Bet it looks beautiful out over the lake. You remember the last time you saw the moon come up from home instead of this office?”

Bebe laughs. “Bold of you to assume I ever leave.”

“Yeah, sometimes I think if the sunlight touches my skin I’ll turn to stone.” Joe takes another sip of his bourbon. “Stump, though. He never seems to be here as late as you or I, does he?”

“People with families have different priorities, Trohman, or so he’s always telling me. He bills nearly as many hours as you do and his work’s impeccable. I know it drives you crazy, but there’s not a lot I can do about the length of his workday when he’s performing.” Bebe sips her martini like it’s butter melting on her tongue, a look of slack relief across her brow, her shoulders uncoiling down her back. Joe can smell the astringence of the gin all the way from the window.

“What if,” Joe starts, then bites his lip. If he finishes that sentence Bebe’s going to think he’s insane. She’s poised at her desk, legs crossed just so under the crisp lines of her pencil skirt, eyebrows sharp and precise. Her platinum hair blazes pewter in the glow of her desk lamp, vanishing in lack of contrast against her blinding white jacket.

“What if…?” she prompts, blond and deadly and whiter than diamond.

“What if he doesn’t have a family at all?”

Bebe blinks at him, clearly taken aback. She fills her mouth with martini and swallows her disbelief along with the spirits. “You met them,” she points out. “We both did.”

“We met people Patrick  _ claims _ are his family,” Joe parries. 

“Who else would they be?”

“Actors.” As soon as he hears it out loud, he knows he’s fucked. He sounds delusional. He sounds unhinged. He sounds like a maniac. If he doesn’t turn this around,  _ immediately _ , he can kiss that window office goodbye. “Isn’t that what he told you? During your meeting? That it’s all been an elaborate lie? Obviously he can no longer keep up with it, now that the actor he hired to play his husband is messing around with Way—”

Bebe takes a large gulp from her glass, followed by another. It is the least composed Joe has ever seen her. Her lips glitter with liquor. “Joe. Why would someone lie about having a family?” she interrupts. 

“To, um. Work fewer hours.”

Bebe sets her glass down with a tiny clink, then walks over to the window, smoothing her skirt. The points of her very high, very white patent heels cut into the carpet ruthlessly. She takes the glass of bourbon from Joe’s hand and throws that back too. Then she wipes her perfect mouth on the back of her pale hand, carnivorous.

“Believe it or not,” she says, her eyebrows all arch and incredulity, “no. Patrick did not confess to an insane scheme about hiring actors to play his family in order to have a marginally reduced workweek. He did tell me he’s been hiding something—god, Joseph, stop  _ drooling _ . The man’s getting divorced.  _ That’s _ what he was hiding.”

“But,” Joe says, then stalls. “You mean they  _ are _ married? Has anyone looked this up?”

“Jesus Christ, Joe—”

“A cursory public records search is all I’m suggesting—”

Bebe slams the bourbon glass down on an ornamental little table near the window. “You will  _ drop this _ ,” she snarls. “Or I will not be able to defend your behavior to the other partners. Okay? Your priority needs to be the Hurley case,  _ not _ Stump’s personal life. I put you on the case because I needed someone working it I could actually  _ trust _ . Was that a mistake?”

Joe looks his boss right in the eye and says, “No. I’ll drop it, Bebe. I’m sorry I came in here and wasted your time.”

“Good,” she says, arms crossed over her chest. “Now get back to work.”

Joe tries to look contrite as he scurries away from Bebe’s office. He tries to look like he’s heading straight to his own office to dig through his files. The reality is he’s about to devote firm resources to digging up everything he can find on the personal life of Patrick Stump. And tomorrow after work? He’s going to follow Patrick home.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first: I think Pete would want me to wish you a happy Star Wars day.
> 
> second: buckle up for some mayhem. (oh, we are so miserable and stunning.)
> 
> see you next week for some semi-sweet.
> 
> [this actually isn't a bad running playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LT4yacMwKS4sMsJCIDrJM)

* * *

_Loved you once, shame on me_   
_Loved you twice, count to three_   
_I don’t wanna be afraid of you_   
_Always runnin’ away_   
_I don’t wanna get used to you_   
_Never comin’ my way_

* * *

Patrick has been staring at the blinking cursor in a blank email all day. It’s a critical moment in the Hurley case, he’s got a counteroffer he needs to be writing for the opposing counsel, yet somehow he sat down at his laptop this morning in his kitchen, opened up this blank email, and has been suffering all day over what to write. Under the table in meetings, he stared at the open draft on his phone. In his office, on the phone with clients—open email draft on his computer. Eyes glued. In the fucking bathroom. On the El the whole way home. Now here he is back in his kitchen. The email’s still blank. He hasn’t thought about anything else all day. 

Patrick Stump does not have time for all these— _feelings_.

He doesn’t know what to say to Pete. He doesn’t know what to say to himself. Hell, maybe he’ll send an email to the address that firm investigator got for him, the one that supposedly belongs to his birth mother, and ask _What is the point of love, and how do people survive it?_ Why not, if he’s apparently so set on recklessness? Why not follow every impulse towards the rocks, til he dashes himself to oblivion, a million splinters too small to call shipwreck?

The message he keeps typing and then erasing, fingers on the keys like the repetitive blink of an SOS, is _I told everyone we are getting divorced so I guess it’s done. Don’t contact me again._

That last part. That’s why he keeps erasing it. What he actually wants to say is, _why haven’t you contacted me??? What is WRONG with you? Any chance we have at fixing this pretty much requires, as a bare minimum, some kind of communication._ But Pete’s been silent. A few panicked texts on the day Patrick found out, three phone calls in quick succession. Patrick was too mad to answer any of them, too spun-out by hurt and confusion and careful equations designed to determine whether he was even allowed to be angry in the first place—

And Pete hasn’t called again. And Patrick so badly wants Pete to call again. The silence between them sounds too much like an answer. Like the first person Patrick has allowed himself to feel anything for since he was _18 years old_ was actually just dicking him around.

When there’s a knock at his door, Patrick jolts. Pete: it must be Pete. Pete’s shown up at his front door. With flowers, or a huge stuffed bear, or a whole fucking symphony, or however it’s done in movies. He’s John Cusak on the doorstep. Patrick doesn’t know if he’ll forgive him, but god, it’s a _chance_.

Patrick flies to the door, throws it open without so much as a cursory glance through the peephole. In his clean grey apartment hallway, he finds the last person in the world he wanted to have his home address.

It’s Andy Hurley.

“Evening, Patrick,” the psychopath purrs. He holds up a slightly dusty bottle of obviously expensive wine. “Thought you could use some company tonight. May I?” 

All Patrick knows is that the world’s aflame and he’s trying to save himself from burning. Trying as hard as he can not to think of vampires, he flings his front door wide and says, “Sure. Yeah. Come in.”

*

Taking the Blue Line out of Wicker Park with your life’s savings in cash a lump against your leg feels pretty intense for a weeknight. Fuck, though. What else is Pete supposed to do? He just feels like, if he hands Patrick this money, Patrick will have to look him in the eye. Patrick will have to hear him when he says _Let me make it up to you. Let’s start over, no contracts and no lies. Let’s do it for real._ Maybe thirteen hundred dollars in cash is enough to prove Pete means it, Pete’s sorry, Pete’s sincere.

The problem with being Pete Wentz is, you’re always sincere. Even while you fuck it up you’re sincere.

So: the train hurtles towards Patrick’s apartment. Pete hurtles with it. The sun bleeds low over the city, darkness settling like a weight as winter seeps into the autumn air. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he gets there. Or: he does know. He hopes, sincerely, it will be enough.

*

Honestly? Patrick can’t tell if he’s being threatened or seduced.

Andy is pouring wine at the long island in Patrick’s kitchen, something Patrick did _not_ ask him to do. He’s dressed casually, which is somehow more intimidating than his overly polished onyx suits. Patrick is sitting on his own couch, anxiously bouncing his knee and wearing stress circles into his cream-colored high-pile rug. He’s curated his home carefully, more like someone staging a scene than someone inhabiting a space. The clean, modern lines tend toward monochromatic, and geometric frames of shapes in brass and pewter accent the bare glass coffee table and mostly bare floating shelves. One shelf holds a large glass orb. Another, a careful assortment of books, all covered in craft paper to beige out the chaotic color scheme. On the wall opposing the windows, he has a large sand-color canvas smeared with waves of paint, evoking dunes, or the slow sun-warmed drown of a desert. 

The glow of the city below should warm the hearthstone of his heart, but tonight the tiny pinprick lights smear against his vision like ice. Patrick feels numb. Patrick feels lonely. Patrick feels novocaine-cold.

His client appears at his elbow, uneasily subservient as he proffers a full red globe of wine. “I think it’s time we got to know one another better,” he says. Patrick takes the drink and Andy backs off, sitting on the couch opposite Patrick’s. Patrick expects the way he sits to be obnoxious and overtly masculine, a colonization of his carefully arranged space, but instead Andy tucks his legs up under him, burrowing his toes between couch cushions like the chill coming off Patrick is making him cold.

Patrick takes a careful sip of the wine, as if it might be poisoned, but on his tongue it’s so full-blooded and rich that he takes another gulp before he can stop himself.

“Good, isn’t it?” Andy smiles. “From my father’s cellar. This bottle is older than either of us. You can taste the earth like the roots did, can’t you?”

It’s not a particularly villainous thing to say, but Andy sets Patrick so on edge that pretty much anything out of his mouth gives Patrick goosebumps. “Yeah I’m a real grapevine,” he says dryly, overcompensating. “Why are you at my house, Hurley?”

“I had a conversation with our mutual friend.”

Patrick’s stomach drops down to his knees before he remembers Pete’s not his to worry about anymore. Wasn’t ever. He bites off the slightly desperate _what did you do to him??_ and speaks in as measured a voice as he can manage. “Before you think you can threaten me, you should know that our—association—has ended.”

Andy’s eyebrows shoot up as fast as Patrick’s stomach dropped. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like to talk about it?”

Patrick opens his mouth, closes it again. 

Andy leans forward conspiratorially, the wine sloshing in his glass. Patrick is reminded of a girl at a slumber party, just like when Andy tucked his feet up. “I wouldn’t _threaten_ you, you know. You’re the closest thing I’ve got to a friend in this city.”

“That’s the scariest thing you’ve said yet,” Patrick mutters into his wine. It really is fucking delicious.

“But it is funny you mention threats,” Andy goes on. “Pete called me up, asked me to meet, and then—your wayward boyfriend threatened _me_.”

Patrick, unearthing new depths of horror, can only manage, “Imagine that.” 

Andy drains his glass and springs up to refill it. He trails his fingers along the back of Patrick’s couch as he passes. Patrick has goosebumps, but not in a fun way.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why Pete threatened me?” Andy asks from the kitchen.

Patrick watches wine glug into the glass like thin, silty blood. “Why did Pete threaten you?”

“He thought that if he helped you with my case, you’d forgive him.” This time, Andy pauses beside Patrick’s couch. “May I?” he asks, that same creepy overly formal diction. Patrick wants nothing less than to share a loveseat with this man, but he shrugs one shoulder as if indifferent. 

Andy perches on the edge, less than one cushion away from Patrick. Dread settles in Patrick’s belly along with the wine. Irrationally he wonders if Andy has somehow poisoned him, slipped him something Andy built an immunity to, out in the wilderness.

“He’s a good guy, you know,” Andy says, taking Patrick entirely off guard. Even his voice is different, all the menace gone. “I don’t know what he did to piss you off—he’s always been good at that, getting along with assholes and driving away everyone who actually matters to him—but if he’s anything like he was when we were kids? He’s worth forgiving.” 

Patrick’s glass has emptied itself. He eyes Andy’s with envy. “Didn’t ask you for relationship advice,” he mutters.

“Well, maybe you should.”

Patrick’s cheeks burn with poorly swallowed anger. The thing is, he doesn’t _have_ anybody to talk to about this kind of thing. He arranged his life deliberately so he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone, and now he has no one to talk to. He’s so lonely that this week _alone_ he’s considered emailing his birth mom, actually teared up in Bebe’s office about the fake end of a fake marriage, and oh yeah, done the whole lonely hearts thing with an ecoterrorist whose account he’s totally going to bill for this evening. 

It hurts, okay?

It hurts so. Fucking. Much.

He misses Bronx’s tiny, hot, vaguely sticky hand grabbing his. He misses the clean, muddled smell of shampoo-soap-shaving cream that is caught perfectly in the curve of Pete’s neck. He misses going on dates and talking about his day and drinking wine with someone. He misses the hectic, dizzying press of Pete’s relatives, of all the chaotic lies, of how close he felt to Pete with all of that swirling around them. He misses the thin, blue tint of Pete’s eyelids, fluttering in bliss, and the quiet exhaled awe that was Pete coming that night they spent in each other’s arms. That one and only night.

He misses Pete like he’s been cracked open and peeled raw. He misses Pete like something he’s never had. He misses Pete like he’s _so fucking angry_ he wants this, because he never wanted any of it, and somehow Pete wormed in with his abundant, expansive, warmth, his _family_ , and made Patrick want it—

And was making it with someone else the entire goddamn time.

And Patrick knew about it, or should have. And Patrick told him to go ahead with it. And never actually said different, did he? Never actually said, _Pete, I’m not pretending to like you for an hourly fee, I really just like you_.

Because it scared the shit out of him. Because if you say it, if you feel it, if you mean it—you can lose it. 

Well. Patrick sure kept himself fucking safe from that one, didn’t he?

Suddenly, Hurley’s hand is on his shoulder, and Patrick leaps half out of his skin. “You okay?” Andy asks softly. It’s only then that Patrick realizes his cheeks are wet. Goddamn it.

“Just because I don’t have anyone to talk to about this, doesn’t mean I’m going to talk to you,” Patrick snaps, scrubbing at the tears on his cheek with his sleeve.

Hurley looks completely unruffled. “Who am I gonna tell?”

The words tumble out of Patrick’s mouth entirely without his permission. “I hired him to act like he cared about me, and then I started to believe it. I got feelings and it never meant anything to him. He’s been seeing someone else and I was too stupid to know, even after we—”

Mercifully, Patrick’s tongue stumbles and stalls before he can say _fucked_ , but his client seems to hear it anyway. He shakes his head, face flat with disbelief. “Not Pete,” he says. “Not possible. He’s got a one-track heart. No acting. If you were together, he was yours.”

“But I never actually told him I wanted that. I—the whole time, we joked about paying each other. Only I don’t know if he knew I was joking.” 

Andy’s brows contract. He gets up, heads for the kitchen. “More wine for this,” he says.

But before he makes it, Patrick’s doorbell buzzes. He shrugs at Andy helplessly. “I don’t know anyone. The only people who have my address are delivery guys.”

Andy ambles over to the door and opens it.

*

Mikey has feelings, probably, but Joe’s not overly concerned about them. He flips through the other screenshots he has from the kid, the other exhibits he wishes he’d presented to the court. When Mikey finally folded, he gave Joe everything—let him scroll through the whole history of the text chain, snap and send screenshots of whatever he liked. That’s how Joe knows Mikey texted Pete, after the confrontation in the file room: 

_I’m not going to tell your husband about us, i just want *answers*. what I did wasn’t cool. I’m sorry I kissed you especially. I thought it would remind you our connection was real. Cuz I thought it was real._

A sensible, honest, non-adultering married man (and in Joe’s field, you don’t meet all that many) would have blocked Mikey’s number. But Pete’s not any of those things, and all Joe wants is to prove it. 

Pete wrote back, _it was real. it’s just—then I met patrick_

_met?_

_Haven’t you been married for years?_

_i mean, like. really got to know him. marriage has its ups & downs_

Seriously. Look Joe in the eye and tell him that shit’s not suspicious! But if he’d showed Bebe the screenshots he’d gotten from Mikey… well. She’s gossipy and often inappropriate for the workplace, but there are some lines she doesn’t cross. Joe feels it’s important to at least pretend to be a nice guy, a team player, someone who prioritizes the good of the firm above petty personal rivalries. Even if it’s a pisspoor disguise. He figures you get credit for trying, right?

In his car, headed for Patrick’s, a thick file in the seat beside him, Joe instructs Siri, “Call Hair Intern.”

“Calling Hair Intern,” Siri confirms. 

“Mr. Trohman, what do you need?” Mikey answers on the first ring. He sounds tired, Joe would say, if Joe was concerned about how the interns sound.

“Prompt response. Appreciate that, kid,” Joe says. No point being stingy with praise, given that it’s free. Although he is pretty sure it rankles Mikey to be called _kid_. 

“I just left the office, so whatever you need, it’ll take me a few extra minutes—”

“I’m not calling about work.” He’s impressed by Mikey’s commitment—it must mean his six months are nearly up. It’s always like that with the interns: by the time they’re been whipped into perfect shape, the semester is basically over, and a month later they’re replaced by a new crop of bumbling law students who need to be taught all over again they’re not hot shit.

“If this is about the thing with Mr. Stump—” Mikey’s obeisant tone has vanished, hackles raised.

“Down, boy. I’m not asking you for anything. I have something I thought you’d like is all.”

Cautiously, Mikey waits.

Joe flicks his thumb along the edge of the file beside him. “Just between you and me, I’ve been looking into Wentz, and—”

“I really don’t want to know, Mr. Trohman—”

“He _is_ married,” Joe says over the kid’s objections. He hates being clever without an audience. 

“Oh.” Mikey’s voice is like a tire with a slow leak. 

“But here’s the interesting thing. It’s not to Stump.”

“Wait, what?”

Truly, Joe is the cat who caught the canary and his whole family too. He’s grinning ear to ear. “Your guy is married to some chick named Ashlee. Guess you’re not the only one he’s been two-timing, huh?”

“That _sucks_ ,” Mikey exhales the word, like his mouth is curling in pain around it. It’s not the accolades Joe would prefer, but he’ll take it.

“Yep. Thought you’d want to know.”

“ _Why_?”

Joe frowns, pulling onto Patrick’s busy street. His building is tall, white and steel, windows running the length of the condos and curving across the sky, probably framing the skyline and the lake and the little strip of coarse beach like a million-dollar painting. Patrick doesn’t need a window office. He’s living in a goddamn Seurat.

“Listen, I’ve gotta go,” he tells Mikey. “See ya.” He hangs up without waiting for a response. He snags a handicapped spot in front of Patrick’s building. He figures he won’t be inside for long.

He tucks his file under his arm, double-locks his Porsche to enjoy its cute, luxury beep, and all but skips to the elevator. God. Joe can’t remember the last time he had this much fun.

*

It’s a good thing Patrick’s wine refill hasn’t made it to him yet, because he’d choke on it when he saw Andy Hurley trailing back into his condo with his sworn nemesis Joe Trohman behind him. He doesn’t know _who_ he thought it would be—Rani from Raj Darbar? Pete? Goddamn Santa Claus?—but the sight of Joe in Patrick’s careful, perfect living room makes his brain black out.

“I came to give you a present,” Joe says, lending credence to the Santa Claus theory if nothing else, “but instead I catch you working on our case without me. Cheating on me again! You know, I’m really hurt by this. Mr. Hurley, hello, I’m Joe Trohman, I’m the other half of your counsel—”

“No, you’re not,” Andy says, with a single dismissive flick of his hand. “Patrick’s a friend of a friend. You’re not needed.”

Joe’s forehead wrinkles and his mouth flops open, a look Patrick recognizes from his own face every time Andy speaks to him. “Well—whatever,” Joe manages. “I’m here anyway. Patrick, I know you’ve been lying, and I can finally prove it.”

Patrick flaps his hand at Andy for his wine glass. He needs liquor for this. Joe holds out a manila folder proudly while Patrick slugs back exquisite wine like it’s children’s cough syrup.

“Lying about _what_?” Patrick asks. It’s meant to come out scathing, but it’s obvious from the strangle in his voice that he’s not even fooling himself anymore.

“Pete Wentz is married, but it’s not to you!” Joe crows, proffering a Cook County wedding license with triumph. 

Hurley snags it from his hand—protectively, Patrick thinks—and hisses, “He doesn’t need to see that right now.”

“He was never married,” Joe tells Andy. “You were never married! You lied for _five years_ about this shit. I chipped in for your _wedding gift_. You have a fucking car seat in your backseat, do you realize how fucking crazy that is? You thought I wouldn’t catch you but I _did_ , your ass is _mine_ , the office is _mine_ —” 

“Fine. Have the office.” Patrick’s voice comes out dull, like a nickel that’s been through the wash a couple hundred times. “Just stay out of my personal life, okay? Is that whole file on Pete? That’s gross, Joe. Even for you, that’s really gross.”

“Not just Pete,” Joe says, eyebrows waggling like he thinks this is all a game. “I’ve got shit on you in here, too. On your par—”

“ _Enough_!” Patrick yelps. “I said you can have the office!”

Joe is so busy taunting that he doesn’t notice Hurley looming larger and larger, muscley and ominous as he draws near. At the last second Joe sees him, moves protectively to clutch the file to his chest, but Andy’s big hands are already on it—there’s a scrum, Joe trying to wrest the file free and Andy just bearing down on it like a linebacker—Patrick doesn’t know what to do, he just knows he’s not in a position to put down his wine— 

“Hey, um, the door’s open?”

Everyone freezes and whips around to the front door. Framed in the threshold in a denim sherpa jacket and an uncharacteristically shaved face is Pete. His shoulders are up near his ears, a broken-open look of guilt and regret like spilled honey limning his features.

He sees Joe and the contrition flickers, quickly replaced with awkward bravado. “Honey, I’m home,” he says lamely, and then honest-to-god _waves_ at Patrick. “Andy? Why are you here?”

Andy has taken advantage of the distraction and put Joe in a headlock. “Following up on our conversation,” he says amicably, and even from across the room Patrick can see Pete shudder.

“You okay?” Pete mouths to Patrick. Patrick nods dazedly. It’s not true, but Pete means ‘okay’ like _has this scary man threatened, hostaged, or otherwise harmed you_ , not _did I wreck your heart_.

“Pete! Great! So great of you to join us!” Joe still sounds excited and triumphant, despite the fact that Andy is applying pressure to his esophagus and his face is slowly turning red. “So this is where you and Bronx and Patrick live together, right? Right? That’s the story? Maybe you can show me Bronx’s room, then, the bed he sleeps in, all his little toys—”

“You’re not going anywhere near my son’s room,” Pete says, affronted. “Do you even hear how deranged you sound? Andy, whatever’s going on here, my vote is you keep choking this guy.”

Patrick gingerly walks into the kitchen area where everyone’s clustered. Andy holds out the liberated file to him with one hand and he takes it. “Nice day for a fire, don’t you think?” Andy winks. Keeping Joe in a headlock is barely straining him. 

Patrick floats over to his fireplace and kneels beside it. He stares at the starter log balanced in the grate and has no idea how to proceed. Six years he’s lived here, and he’s never once made a fire.

“I came to tell Patrick I know you’re not married to him. There’s no record in the system, see. I can’t believe a liar as good as Patrick didn’t think to create a dummy marriage record in the county database!”

“What are you talking about?” Pete asks over his shoulder. He pads softly across the living room like he’s been here a million times, kneels next to Patrick, and gets to work starting the fire. Patrick wishes Pete would touch him, something small and reassuring, but also he wants to use Pete as kindling. “Of course our marriage isn’t in the system. Didn’t you tell him, hon? We didn’t want to participate in an institution of oppression. Gay marriage wasn’t legal in every state when we got engaged, so we decided not to have a legal wedding. We had a ceremony and a reception, but I guess technically our marriage counts as common law, right, Trick? You all would know more about how that works than me.”

Patrick and Joe are staring at Pete with equally incredulous looks. “You really _are_ a good actor,” Patrick murmurs, and Pete flinches like he’s been hit.

“That’s bullshit,” Joe says. “That’s—I mean obviously that’s totally fake.”

Pete shrugs. “Hard to prove, though, isn’t it?”

Joe twists in the headlock to look up at Andy. “Back me up, here, Hurley.”

Instead, Andy releases the headlock. Patrick has started to feed pieces of paper into the fledgling fire, facedown. He doesn’t care what’s in here, about Pete or about him or about the people he shares blood with. He doesn’t want to know it. He doesn’t, hasn’t ever, cared what’s true. He just wants Pete beside him and the warmth on his face. He wants this horrible situation over with.

“Can everyone who doesn’t live here please leave my house now?” Patrick asks the room.

“But Pete’s married to someone named Ashlee,” Joe protests.

“Let it _go_ ,” Patrick says. Pete adds, “If you can find her, you’re welcome to serve her divorce papers for me.” 

“I agree wholeheartedly that Joe should leave. But Patrick, I did come here with a purpose. Pete encouraged me to tell you the truth—that I have an alibi for the night of the explosion.” Hurley offers.

If that’s supposed to be tantalizing, Patrick can’t even tell. He could not give less of a fuck. “Get out. Of my house. All of this—we can talk about it tomorrow. Or never, never’s good too.” Patrick squeezes Pete’s shoulder without thinking, propelling himself to the front door. Pete keeps feeding papers into the flames.

“I’ll be in your office tomorrow at 9,” Hurley says. “We’ll talk then.”

“Ten,” Patrick counters. His eyes slide sideways to Pete. “I might be in late.”

“Well I’ve got 10:30 then,” Joe says, clearly not enjoying how unimportant his dramatic coup has been.

“No,” Patrick says flatly. “You fall under ‘never.’ Now get out. Good night.”

“Where _is_ Bronx, then, if you all live here?” Joe tries a parting shot.

“At his grandmother’s,” Pete says through clenched teeth. “I’m surprised you don’t have her house bugged.”

“And aren’t you guys supposed to be pretending to get a fake divorce?” Joe demands, desperate.

“We’re about to have an awful conversation about it. So go,” Pete snaps.

Patrick opens the front door and sweeps an arm for his uninvited guests. Hurley puts his hands up and strolls out, smirking. Joe pauses for a moment, staring forlornly at the file Pete is feeding piece-by-piece into the flames in Patrick’s stead.

“Out,” Patrick reminds him, and Joe scuttles through the door too. Patrick slams it shut, locks the knob, bolt, _and_ chain, and then leans his back against the door as if his body is one final level of protection.

He looks at Pete, kneeling in front of the fire, his features laid open by sincerity and distress. He realizes he shoved the papers into Pete’s hands without hesitation, gave him the key to unlocking every secret he’s ever pestered Patrick for in a moment of blind trust. And Pete isn’t looking at the pages. He’s following Patrick’s example, holding them ink-to-fire and letting flames lick up them, rendering secrets into ash without even stealing a peek.

“Do you want me to go too?” Pete asks, his voice pained. “I’ll wait ten minutes for Joe to leave, and then—”

“No, stay,” Patrick says before he can think better of it. He looses a long, trembling exhale. “I think we should talk.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LONG LAST: these dumb boys have a conversation.
> 
> Next week: epilogue!
> 
> [tunes](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LT4yacMwKS4sMsJCIDrJM)

* * *

_So I'll wait for you, I'll pray_  
_I will keep on waiting for your love_  
_For you, I'll wait_  
_I will keep on waiting for your_

* * *

Pete kneels on the floor next to the fireplace and has no idea what to say next. Patrick leans against his front door halfway across the open-concept apartment, breathing hard. From this distance, framed in the matter-of-fact luxury that makes up his life, he looks a thousand miles away. Utterly unreachable. Pete might as well stretch his arm out and try to brush his fingers against the moon.

Before Pete can decide between the half a million inane things he might say, Patrick peels his back off the door and sighs mightily. He grabs a bottle of wine off the counter by its neck and stomps across the huge, high-ceiled room. He stops just out of reach of where Pete kneels, and thrusts the bottle at him, either a threat or an offering.

“Where’s Bronx?” he asks, only the harshness of his tone makes it more like a demand.

“Like I told Joe. At my mom’s.”

“Did you ply her with more ridiculous lies to get her to babysit?”

Pete’s a little offended by that one—after all, Patrick’s the one who started this whole dishonesty thing—but he’s literally on his knees, here, begging for another chance, so he lets it go. “I told her the truth,” he says.

“Which version?” Patrick’s eyebrows are daggers, framing his glare with incredulity and scorn.

Pete sighs, and stands up on his knees to stretch for the wine bottle. Patrick hasn’t brought him a glass, so what the hell, he takes a swig out of the bottleneck. The bloody flavor slides sensuous over his lips, leaving the feeling of red like a stain.

“The actual version. Believe it or not.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed you were capable.”

Pete sets the bottle on Patrick’s ashwood floors. He pulls the wad of cash out of his jeans and holds it out to Patrick. When Patrick doesn’t move, he shoves it across the floor. It slides most of the way to Patrick’s feet and then just sits there, ugly between them. “I told her that I hired an actor to pretend to be my boyfriend at Thanksgiving because I was tired of her thinking I was an irresponsible mess and I wanted her to be able to see how much I’ve grown up. It’s like her view of me got stuck when she sent me to Wilderness, and everything with Ashlee… She’s never seen me as an adult. She’s always been so disappointed. So I told her all of that, and I told her I needed her to watch Bronx because I was coming to your house to apologize to you. To settle up, clear our debt, and tell you how I really feel.”

Patrick picks up the money, no doubt hot and damp from so long in Pete’s pocket, and counts through the soft bills. “So this is what that night was worth to you?”

Pete cringes. “No. No. I’m not paying you for—Patrick. Come on. You _know_ me.” 

Patrick looks impossibly remote. He drops the money back on the floor, and turns his back to Pete to walk slowly to his couches. Only when he gets there, his legs just kind of fold up, and he’s sitting on the rug on the floor, seven feet from Pete but equal, on his level.

“What did your mom say?”

This is not the direction Pete expected this evening to take. “Um, she didn’t seem surprised. _I should have known a boy like that wouldn’t marry you_ , I think were her exact words. She was not optimistic that you would agree to be my boyfriend for, you know, free. Oh, and she made some dig about how it’s a good thing they can afford to send Bronx to college, if I think spending my money on gigolos is the way to show I’m an adult. So that was kind of fun. I didn’t know she knew the word gigolo.”

Patrick kind of shudders. “So that’s what I’m missing out on by not having a family.”

“Well, don’t blame it on family in general. You see what it’s like, trying to have a relationship with me.”

Pete is gratified by Patrick’s sudden, unexpected laugh. “You really aren’t making it easy, are you?”

“Never do.” Pete grins, and if the smile is frayed at the edges from years of self-deprecation, self-dislike, well, at least it’s the right shape. “You probably don’t want to hear this from me, Patrick, but me and Bronx—we want to be your family. He asks about you all the time and I don’t know what to say, except: I made a mess of it. Not because our relationship was poorly defined or because I didn’t know if my feelings were real. Not because of any excuses. Just—regular, unspectacular fear.”

“What did you come here to say, Pete?” Patrick sounds tired. “ _How you really feel_ , you said. So like. How do you feel?”

Not at all how he imagined this going, but what in Pete’s life does? He tears a long strip off the now-empty manila folder, worries the cardstock with his fingerprints. “I mean. I love you,” he says, but it’s all wrong, he can’t even look at Patrick when he says it. The words hang in the air between them and he looks up, hangdown, from under his bangs.

“For fuck’s sake. Do you want dinner?” Patrick asks. Pete is entirely taken aback. His tone is—a complete mystery. But the invitation, that’s a good sign, right? Maybe Patrick really is going to let him stay. Maybe Patrick really is willing to listen to his dumbass apology. 

“I’d like that,” he says, speaking softly like the wrong word might jinx it.

Patrick makes omelettes for dinner, in his large, outrageously pretty chrome-and-marble kitchen. “It’s all I ever really make,” he says, shrugging one shoulder while he dices peppers and green onions. Pete can’t imagine paying for a kitchen like this if you weren’t, like, Gordon Ramsey, but there’s a lot about Patrick’s life he can’t imagine, really. Most of what he knows about Patrick is what he _doesn’t_ know about Patrick, and how good Patrick’s lips feel on his, and how much he’d like to feel them.

Pete feels pretty sure this space is being held open for his apology, but now that he’s finally convinced Patrick to listen, he doesn’t know what to say. All the words he rehearsed on the El taste wrong. His $1300 still lays on the floor by the fireplace, symbolizing all the ways he was wrong about how to fix things with Patrick. All the important things about Patrick that he doesn’t know. 

“I used to cook a lot,” Patrick says, his back to Pete as he chops. “When I was a kid. It was a way to be, you know, useful. I didn’t really get it, back then. I thought if I did a good job, like, providing services and staying out of the way, the fosters might keep me.”

Pete is frozen at the island on his barstool. He knows this is the kind of thing he’s not supposed to ask questions about. His entire brain right now is myelinated tubes of sparking, fizzing _questions_. Patrick kind of glances back over his shoulder towards Pete, and Pete thinks he catches a smirk at the corner of those lips, the ones he’d do anything to kiss again. Patrick’s testing him, maybe, to see how sorry he really is—how respectful he can be. Or maybe Patrick’s giving him a gift, offering some vulnerability. Either way, he bites down on his tongue. Safer not to say.

“They didn’t,” Patrick volunteers, reaching into a cabinet and producing a big metal bowl. He starts cracking eggs into it. “Older kids—fosters who want families don’t really take them in. Like, why would you? Close to puberty, full of behavior problems you didn’t teach them, wanting expensive things like cars and college tuition. It’s a bad investment. Fosters looking to adopt, they go for the cute, impressionable ones. Doesn’t matter if you know how to prepare porterhouse steak and potatoes au gratin. Twelve is too old.”

Pete makes a sound. He doesn’t mean to. But a soft sound starts in his chest and sneaks out of his mouth without his permission.

Patrick crumbles an eggshell in his fist and washes the shards down his garbage disposal. “Not that I was twelve when I went in. When my grandma died… She was my father’s mother. All the adults I was related to, and she was the only one who’d take me. Bio dad wouldn’t. No one had seen my mom since she walked out of the hospital the day after I was born. I wasn’t—I mean. They were really young.” He stirs the veggies he’s got sauteing in a pan on the stove, filling the air with the smell of oil and spice, before he turns back to his bowl and starts whisking.

“One place I stayed for a while, the guy was a musician. He was teaching me how to play. I’d go into his music room, pick up something in there, and see how well I could translate what he’d shown me before onto new instruments. He acted like it was a big deal that I could do that. We didn’t get to reading music before the lady got sick and they sent their foster kids back, but even without it, I could pick out a song from almost anything I touched. You get to know the instrument and it shows you where the songs are. That was pretty cool. I saved money for a while, wanting to get a guitar or something of my own, but. Personal property doesn’t last long in the system. Better to have a hobby that works in any home, like cooking.”

Steam rises around Patrick as he pours egg batter into a hot pan. He works a spatula around the edges with total focus, helping the egg fluff up so he can fold it around fillings. He steals a shy glance at Pete. “Is this the kind of stuff you want to know?”

“Yes,” Pete exhales his relief, feeling that wall between them coming down. For the first time since they met, he feels like he could reach over and really _touch_ Patrick, actually feel him. “And no. I only want to know what you want to tell me. I—I got frustrated before. Pushy. You felt so close to me, and also so… unknowable. I liked you so much. And I couldn’t ever really tell if we were—if you were acting. If I was crossing the line. It was autopilot, what happened with Mikey. Sending him that picture. Me on my totally shitty, unforgivable, trash-boy autopilot. I don’t know how to express how sorry—”

“I know,” Patrick interrupts. He plates a perfectly fluffy omelette, sprinkles cheese and green onion over the top, and sets it in front of Pete. It’s the first time he’s met Pete’s eyes since he started talking. “I know you’re sorry. I’m sorry too. Just—” He squeezes his eyes shut hard, shakes his head as if to clear it. “Just promise me that this time it will just be you and me.”

Pete hates himself in that moment. In lots of moments. He hates that he has no way to make Patrick believe that it was always just him and Pete. That Mikey was never anything. A nervous tic, a phantom limb, the withdrawal shakes from an old bad habit. “Since the minute I walked into that terrifying lunch and saw you. In your dumb suit, with your good hair, with those _eyes_ and your stupid-handsome face. You’re it for me. I knew it then, and I knew it the last time I was in your apartment. I’ve known it every minute since I first saw you. I knew it was real for me and I didn’t know if it was real for you, or if you were real at all, and—and I’m not scared anymore. So I’m not going to fuck up like that again. I’ll fuck up in new ways, probably, like, of course I will, I’m garbage, but—”

Pete stops in the middle of his anxious ramble when he realizes that, softly, Patrick is laughing.

“Are you laughing at me?” he asks, voice pained.

Patrick stabs the omelette between them with a fork. Cheese from the molten center stretches between his fork and the plate. “Yes,” he laughs. He fills his mouth with egg. “Will you _stop_ and just promise?”

Pete picks up his fork, cuts off a corner of omelette, and fills his mouth too. “Promise,” he says, and hopes Patrick can feel all the ways it’s an oath.

Patrick’s lips soften at the edges, a honey-warm look spreading over his face, and he leans towards Pete, and Pete leans towards him, and maybe, _maybe_ all is forgiven—

And Pete’s phone rings. “Shit!” Pete startles. “Bedtime. I’ve gotta tuck Bronx in.”

“Should I—?” Patrick vaguely gestures toward the other room.

“No, stay. He’s been wanting to see you.” Pete accepts the incoming Facetime call and there’s Bronx, waving so fast his hand is a blur, framed by Pete’s mom’s only slightly shaky camerawork. 

“Daddy! PAGRICK!” His voice rises to shriek-level with excitement as he notices Patrick.

“Hi Bronxie!” Patrick answers. “Are you having a sleepover with your grandma tonight? That’s pretty cool!”

Bronx’s delighted tone has been overtaken by the kind of pout that always makes Pete want to laugh. “But Daddy has a sleepover with Pagrick an’ I don’t get to.”

“Well bud, I don’t know if I’m staying,” Pete says.

Patrick nudges Pete with his elbow. In the little thumbnail showing their faces back to them, Pete sees Patrick’s smile. “You’re probably staying.”

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs to Patrick. 

On screen, Bronx’s frown has grown ominous. “An’ you don’t want me there,” he declares, wounded.

“Of course we want you here!” Pete tells the tiny boy on screen. To Patrick he adds, “We’re at the age where we’ve discovered blaming others for our problems.”

“I’m still at that age,” Patrick tells Bronx. “Don’t worry, it’s a good age to be. Daddy blames himself for _everything_ , it seems exhausting.”

Pete smacks Patrick’s shoulder. “Maybe sometime we can all have a sleepover together, if Patrick’s…”

“Yes. I mean, I’d like that.” 

Patrick agrees before Pete’s figured out how to ask. Pete raises his eyebrows at Patrick, because there are so many more questions he doesn’t know how to ask yet. Like _do you mean it_ and _is this real_ and _what do you want to be to him, to us_.

Patrick shrugs a shoulder back at Pete’s eyebrows. “We’ll talk about it,” he says. “But… you’re with me, aren’t you? We both want to see what could happen here, if we could hold off on sabotaging ourselves for two minutes.”

From behind the camera, Pete’s mother interrupts drily, “As touching as all this is, Peter, I’m not a tripod. Can you and your actor finish saying goodnight so I can get this little man to bed?”

“Goodnight, Bronx. I’ll see you soon, okay? And goodnight, Dale,” Patrick says obediently, with a slight bite.

“Have good dreams, Bronx-boo. I love you. I’ll see you with the sun,” Pete promises. Bronx waves goodnight with his no-longer-chubby hand, the same starfish wave he’s done since he was itsy-bitsy, and Pete’s heart fogs over like a bathroom mirror with the humid intensity of love. 

When the call ends, its gravity lingers. There’s not really a casual way to date someone with a four-year-old. It’s a big part of why Pete doesn’t date. You’ve gotta commit to it, when you put yourself in the life of a kid. If you’re gonna be around, you’ve got to really do it. Knowing his pardon is still tender and shiny, like the new skin beneath an old scab, he’s not sure what to say to Patrick now.

But maybe he doesn’t have to solve all his problems with words. Because Patrick’s leaning into him, his eyes glinting like starlight, and their lips aren’t that far apart, really, when Pete’s not creating distance by speaking. Could it really be so easy?

Patrick leans in and kisses him, full and sure. His tongue parts Pete’s lips and he kisses him like he thought he’d never get to do it again. Pete finds that same fire stirring in his bones. He stumbles off his stool, their mouths locked, desire burning urgent in him; Patrick’s fingers grip his arms, their chests crush, their kiss carries them. They stumble down the hall and Pete’s eyes are closed kissing, so even as he lands on his back on the bed, he still hasn’t seen Patrick’s bedroom.

*

Patrick Stump has been waiting behind walls his whole life, like that could possibly be less painful than whatever love can do to you. Now Pete Wentz lays on his back in a room no one but Patrick has ever been inside, beneath him on a bed, and Patrick simply is not waiting anymore.

Doesn’t need to wait. He’s found it.

He’s home.


	10. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, all of you, for taking this wild ride with me! The idea for this fic came years ago, while I was binge-watching The Good Wife at a Planet Fitness in Ocean Springs, Mississippi and thought to myself, _Cary looks like the lawyer AU version of soulpunk!Patrick_. I wrote the first Patrick POV section of this fic and backburnered it for, oh, 3-4 years. And now it's finally here, fully realized and finished, for all of us to enjoy! 
> 
> I'm so grateful for everyone's encouragement and enthusiasm, and all of my love always to immoral-crow for teaching me how to end a story in an emotionally satisfying way. (And guys--I did go back and write a second epilogue. You deserved it.) It has been a delight, guys.
> 
> [story playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LT4yacMwKS4sMsJCIDrJM)

* * *

_I finally see myself_   
_Unabridged and overwhelmed_   
_A mess of a story I'm ashamed to tell_   
_But I'm slowly learning how to break this spell_   
_And I finally see myself_   
_Now I only want what's real_   
_To let my heart feel what it feels_

* * *

They meet in the judge’s chambers. Money and publicity, in combination and excess, have a way of creating privacy. There’s none of the indignity of the open, charnel house hearings the ordinary poor endure. It’s all quite civilized. Patrick used to take comfort in that order, in the neatly pressed collars on well-tailored shirts, in _control_. These days it chafes. These days he’s not pretending anymore. 

This system damaged him when he was small, without resources, without defenses. It became his rescuer the same as it let him down. That’s part of him. His history is part of him. Being with Pete is teaching him to contain that without being overwhelmed by it. Being with Pete is teaching him that having a past isn’t always a bad thing. After all, if Pete didn’t have an inglorious past, they wouldn’t have Bronx. He wouldn’t have a weird, persuasive connection to Hurley. He wouldn’t have been heartbroken and aimless answering Craigslist ads of escalating absurdity. If Patrick had had things his way—neat, scrubbed of history, organized—they never would have met at all.

Thank god Pete and his complicated history crashed into Patrick’s perfect, crystal-clear snowglobe and fucked it all up.

Hurley approaches the judge’s desk, Patrick a half-step behind. “I’m here to enter my plea,” he says. It’s amazing how normal his voice sounds when he’s not trying to seem dangerous. So rich he’s untouchable, made of anger, prone to violent demonstrations, disinclined to remorse—he’s dangerous enough without playacting menace on top of it. They’re here today to tell the truth, more or less. Patrick can hardly believe it himself.

The Honorable Judge Martin has had about enough of Hurley, and Patrick, and this case. His fingers are steepled on his desk blotter, his face set in an unfeeling frown, like his disapproval is reflexive and unrelated to whatever they might say or do today. “Which plea is it this time? Are you wanting a trial, a settlement, or just another platform to self-aggrandize on?”

Patrick sidesteps Hurley with an apologetic wince, leans toward the judge. “You know Roy, right?” he asks. “Roy Wentz?”

“From the State’s Attorney office? We golf together,” Martin says. The suspicion in his voice grows thicker.

Patrick nods like a sycophant. “Oh, that’s great. If you know Roy, this will make sense to you. Mr. Hurley here—he’s an old friend of Roy’s son. So the Wentz men sat down with my client and provided some, you know, counsel.”

“Isn’t that your job, Mr. Stump?” He’s getting _nothing_ from Martin here, but that’s about what he expected.

Patrick puts his palms up and shrugs, as if to say, _clients, right?_ “They changed his mind about the tack to take with his case. Not my strategy, but hey. I can be flexible. I think you’ll find what my client has to say is going to solve a lot of problems for both of us, Your Honor.”

“Let’s hear it, then, Mr. Hurley,” Judge Martin says with open distaste.

“I plead guilty,” Andy says, and his grin spills unsettling across his face like it always does. Things have been better between him and Hurley since Pete intervened, but god, Patrick wishes he could change everything about his client. 

“Great. Let’s move ahead with sentencing, then, shall we?”

“Guilty of obstructing justice, that is. I’m innocent of the bombing. I planted evidence at my apartment, and… misconstrued my public image. So I would appear guilty. But I’m not.”

Patrick bites his lip and waits for Martin to throw them out. What they’re doing today is completely preposterous, against form, and never works on ethical judges like Martin. The worst thing is, Patrick really does believe that this time, Hurley’s telling the truth.

“All right, I’ll bite. Why would you do something like that, Mr. Hurley?”

“I wanted terrorism charges to dismantle my father’s empire, scare off his investors and tarnish his reputation. I thought the best way to stop his destruction of the environment was to make him too risky to work with. That the most effective thing I could do was martyr myself and be a symbol behind bars, rather than out in the world trying to do good.”

“So why the change of heart?”

That grin again. Patrick’s blood turns into cottage cheese just looking at it. “Well, Your Honor. I realized the largest-scale OSHA violations and EPA sanctions of the century would be a far more effective method. And with my insider information about the cut corners and lax safety measures that allowed this tragedy to occur…” Andy blinks like he’s an innocent Disney princess. “I just want to see justice done, Your Honor. Are you the man who can help me do it?”

Judge Martin takes off his glasses and sighs. And that’s it. The gambit’s landed. It takes all the restraint Patrick has not to pump his fist in the air right there.

“I’ll just go ahead and cancel my afternoon, shall I,” says Martin crabbily. It’s the sound of victory.

Outside the courthouse, Pete is waiting. 

Patrick barely has time to ask “What are you doing here?” before Bronx launches himself into Patrick’s legs with the force of a wrecking ball. 

“We bringeded BALLOONS!” he cries.

“I can see that,” laughs Patrick, scooping the puffy-jacket-encased kid up and getting kicked by Lightning McQueen snowboots approximately nine times in the process. Hurley has stayed behind with one of the interns to record a deposition, and from here on out, Patrick can appropriately delegate most of the work on this case to his underlings, so in some ways the case is finished; but he’s not sure if that counts as a balloon occasion. “Are we celebrating my victory, or…?”

Beaming, Pete loops a flock of balloons over Patrick’s forearm. One big mylar balloon is a bouquet of glittering roses; three others are hearts, pink and red and gold. “Our anniversary,” he grins. “Today marks two months since we became fake husbands at a work lunch.”

Patrick ducks his head, hiding his smile behind the pom-pom on Bronx’s hat. “So that’s what? A month since we started dating for feelings instead of cash?”

Pete finds his hidden smile and kisses him. His lips are December-cold. “All the misunderstandings and conflict and borderline solicitation was an elaborate courtship ritual. You’ve been romanced Pete-style. It all counts. Two month anniversary.”

Bronx is still trying to pronounce the word _anniversary_. “Happy ammen… happy amnisarry… Happy birthday!” he settles on.

Patrick smushes Bronx into Pete’s arms and starts tying the balloons to him, while Bronx shrieks with laughter. “Okay, for the official record? I’d like to start counting from after the d-i-c-k-p-i-c?”

“No way,” Pete says, passing Bronx back once the balloons are fastened. “You’re not letting me off the hook like that. That was real relationship time, and I f-u-c-k-ed up. Now let us tell you about the special secret plan—” 

“We’re coming back around to that later,” Patrick warns. 

Bronx shrieks, “We’re going to see the Tyrannosaurus rex!” Even excited, he shapes the syllables of the long word with complete expertise. Can’t manage _anniversary_ or _allergies_ or _hiccuping_ or _forgot_ , but damn if he doesn’t sound like a miniature paleontologist. He bounces with enthusiasm, landing a few more kicks in Patrick’s ribs. 

“Fantastic. I love it,” Patrick says. “I’ve got one last thing to wrap up before we go, though.” He tosses Pete his keys. “You want to grab the car while I make a quick call?”

Pete wraps his arms around both of them, making a Bronx sandwich, and kisses Patrick on the courthouse steps. The early evening sky is grey-white and soft, the air feeling thick with the promise of snow. It is actually kind of perfect.

Patrick wouldn’t even believe it if it wasn’t happening to him.

*

Possibly the worst fucking part is that Joe’s at work when he gets the call. Where else would he be? It’s barely 4:30, normal office hours for normal people. It just feels worse because Joe knows he’ll be here til eight, easy, and by 8:15 it always starts to feel like why bother going home at all? Twenty minutes on the El and a dark walk through the slush later, he’ll be trying to get his door unlocked with numb fingers. His apartment will yawn before him, empty and undisturbed like an archaeological site documenting loneliness: a treadmill used to hang shirts, an archipelago of pizza boxes, a fridge that stays empty beside a trash can that stays full, and the stale air of his sleep exhalations that no daytime occupants ever dispel. Maybe he could get a plant or something, but they always die. The only thing that will be waiting for him is the massive fucking parking ticket he got in front of Patrick’s building. If that’s karma or whatever, he doesn’t think it’s very funny.

Look. It’s not like Joe to feel down like this. But the spark has kind of gone out of things lately. He got the window office—he _won_ —but he won because Patrick let him. Patrick sent out an email to Bebe and the senior partners, CC’d Joe on it. _You’ve noticed lately that I’ve been distracted by my family life, and you’re right—it’s splitting my focus. I don’t think I’m the right man for any promotion right now. I wish I could make this job the same priority I used to, but it has become obvious my life needs my attention too. Joe Trohman is a trusted colleague who embodies the spirit and drive of Rexha, Saporta, and Hoppus. If it were up to me, I’d choose him to advance the firm and uphold its reputation in my place._

So yeah. Talk about a hollow victory. He didn’t humiliate Patrick; he didn’t expose his insane, long-term lie; he got kicked off the terrorism case and it didn’t even blow up in Patrick’s face. Sometimes it doesn’t even feel like Joe won at all. It has been a very disappointing year.

The last thing he wants to do is answer an incoming call from his disinterested nemesis. It feels like getting a call from an ex. Not that Joe’s dated in a while. He plunks down heavily on one of the useless, expensive poufs near his amazing new window and takes Patrick’s call.

“Joe Trohman speaking,” he says, and even to him his voice sounds sad. He’s not even enjoying the view.

“Hey pal,” Patrick says happily. They have never been pals. “I just wanted to fill you in. The judge accepted Hurley’s plea. He’s doing a depo about his father’s negligent business practices as we speak. So—case closed!”

There are numerous points upon which to object. For one, Hurley’s father is the one who hired them, and he is unlikely to be as pleased by this outcome. For another, Joe hasn’t been on this case in a month. He doesn’t have the spirit to argue, though. Who _is_ he, even?! His spirit to argue is like, his entire personality. And livelihood.

“If you’re calling just to gloat, we can hang up now,” Joe says peevishly. He hates this. He doesn’t feel like himself at all.

“You wound me,” Patrick says, sounding very unwounded indeed. Joe can _hear_ his smile. “C’mon, Trohman. Can’t we be friends now that you’ve ousted me?”

“People like you and I don’t _need_ friends, Stump. We need friction. We need someone to push against. We’re at our best when it’s life-or-death. We need _competition_.”

“I think if there’s one thing you’ve proven, it’s that you and I are very different types of people. Remember I’m lazy? A slacker who’s more interested in changing diapers than winning cases? A man who can’t multitask well enough to manage his sordid affairs and elaborate lies, let alone a complex criminal caseload?” Patrick’s voice is warm, teasing. _Friendly_. He’s doing it on purpose just to torment Joe, to dangle over his head all the ways their excellent, exciting relationship is over. When have they _ever_ spoken to one another with friendliness? It is intolerable.

“You don’t have to rub it in. You got away with your lies. You fooled everyone but me, and no one will listen to me now that you’re some sad divorcee. You even—you even ruined the office for me, somehow. I fold, okay? You’ve won.” Joe almost chokes on the words, because they are poison. “I just—I just don’t know what I’m going to do now.”

His sense of defeat, his—well, to be honest, it’s definitely depression—seeps into his voice. Patrick’s voice softens on the other end of the line. Joe hates it. “Aw, Joe. It’s not so bad. You know what you should do now? Go home. Go see your friends, your family, whoever you’re dating these days. Hit the gym or do, you know, a hobby. You like metal, right? You could listen to some records really loud and go for a walk along the lake. It’s so pretty when it’s frozen. Or maybe you could learn to play the guitar! There’s plenty of stuff in life that’s not just work rivalries. I bet you’ll feel better with some distraction.”

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Joe says, because if nothing else, he still has his _dignity_. He hopes his voice sounds cutting and not just pathetic. “Don’t you dare comfort me. That’s not how this works. We are supposed to try and ruin each other’s lives.”

He doesn’t say _and I just realized that I don’t have a life. I’m 32 years old and all I have to look forward to is competing against someone who doesn’t even care about me._

“Well, I guess I’ll throw you a bone on that front,” Patrick laughs, and Joe’s heart gets even chillier as he hears the giggle and chatter of a child come across the line. Is Patrick playing a fucking Youtube video of children in the background, to help with his cover story? Or is Joe just literally crazy, and Patrick’s been telling the truth all along? Tinny and small, he hears a car door slam, and a muffled voice that just might be Pete’s saying _Hey babe_. _Long phone call?_ Joe realizes that the pen he’s been holding has cracked in half in his fist. Ink dribbles onto his highly expensive pant leg and his dumb beige pouf.

“Three guesses who I’m bringing as a date to the office Christmas party,” Patrick says, and his voice is laughter. “You’re going to flip out, Joe Troh. I’m bringing my ex-husband.”

Joe cannot even get words out. He’s speechless. He is literally speechless. The _audacity_. The _absurdity_. The brazen _idiocy_ —

But he knows. He knows already. Patrick Stump is made of fucking gold. He can say anything he wants, he can do anything he wants. Everyone will believe him. And if they don’t? It still won’t matter. Because there’s more to him than work. His job is not the sum of his existence. If he falls out of favor. If he passes up a promotion and a gorgeous office with stupid, ink-stained poufs. If he royally fucks up a case with an incredibly major client. What’s the worst that can happen? They fire him, and he goes home to his loving, adorable family?

Patrick has made himself untouchable.

In the background of his sputtering silence, he hears that probably-Pete’s voice again. _Are you going to tell him about the interview?_

Muffled, like he’s speaking away from the mouthpiece of the phone only half-heartedly, Patrick says, “He sounds so depressed already, I might wait.”

“What interview,” Joe demands. His heart is hollow. It cannot possibly get worse.

“Oh, well. My father-in-law is kind of a major presence at the S.A.’s office. You know Roy Wentz? After the holidays I’m coming in for an interview. It’s a pay cut, but it might work better for our family. Trying to save a marriage that’s already failed means you gotta try some different things, right?”

Just when Joe didn’t think it was possible to be more devastated. He’s going to throw himself out his fucking office window.

“Just—stop pretending you were ever married for _one_ minute. Give me that much. You love your job the way I love mine, even if you are lazy. You’re not leaving the firm.”

“Do you like the way you feel working there? For real. Because I don’t.”

There is a horrible pause, during which Joe absolutely refuses to consider himself. The silence yawns like a cavern of self-reflection between them. Joe is just about to start humming _The Brady Bunch_ theme to stave off any insights or realizations about the way he lives his life when Patrick sighs, and says, “But hey. If I get the job, Troh, we’ll finally get to face each other in court.”

Oh. _Oh_. A beautiful, life-sustaining flower of spite blooms like hope in Joe’s heart. “Really?” he asks, and his voice is twisted up like a little kid’s. “Stump. That would be wonderful. I will grind you into the earth in front of god and everyone.”

“Happy Hanukkah, then,” says Stump. “See you at the holiday party this weekend. Take care of yourself, or else go blindfolded into traffic, you know, whichever. Just get out of the office for once.”

And then that bastard hangs up the phone, exactly like he knows Joe was low-key already planning to spend the night on his very expensive, very unfulfilling office couch.

Well. At least Joe has something to do now. If Stump is dumb enough to bring his fake-ex fake-husband to the holiday party? That means Joe has one last chance to humiliate and expose him in front of everybody.

There’s no time to waste. He’s got schemes to scheme, plots to plot, lives to ruin. The city never sleeps, so neither will Joe Trohman.

*

“Dad. It’s choked-ing me,” Bronx whines, tugging at his tiny bowtie with small, clumsy fingers.

“Good thing you don’t have the manual dexterity to take it off, then,” Pete says, scooping Bronx onto his hip and kissing the side of his blond head. That platinum hair led a million unkind strangers to ask _who’s the father?_ when he and Ash and Bronx went anywhere, but with Patrick that question is somehow answered. For the first time maybe ever, Pete belongs with the people he’s chosen as family.

Bronx has his face screwed up like he’s preparing to be unpleasant. His brow is severe, his side-eye rivaling Patrick’s. He twists the little red-and-green clip-on unhappily. Pete’s got about 30 seconds before Bronx musters some real tears. His main agenda right now is staving off an emotional blowout while they’re standing in the lobby of Patrick’s office building. Really, that is the last thing he needs. Office gossip has made him conspicuous enough without an unreasonable screaming four-year-old tearing off his own clothes in front of everyone.

“Buddy. Just leave it. It’s not choking you,” he sighs. It took half an hour to get Bronx into his khakis, dress shirt, and sweater. He looks perfect, like a Christmas card, but only if you weren’t there for the extended period of trying to wrangle him into his underpants. Bronx thinks the height of comedy is streaking through the apartment while his dad tries not to scream. It has been a trying night. Pete felt exhausted before they even got on the El. Right now his margin between _calm_ and _losing it_ is too small to be perceived with the naked eye.

And now Bronx feels invalidated, and his eyes well up effortlessly with tears. His cheeks turn tomato red and he opens his mouth to wail, and thank god, that’s when Patrick arrives. Pete’s never really done this before—parented with help—and it’s like having a second battery pack for patience. When he’s burned out, Patrick steps in, and together they limp along a little further between meltdowns. It’s really nice, not doing it all on his own. He’s no longer sure how he made it four years solo.

“You look so _handsome_!” Patrick tells Bronx, kissing his cheek with a smack that makes him giggle. “Here, let me loosen your bow tie so it feels better.” He wiggles the clip-on around, doing absolutely nothing, and Bronx immediately stops fussing.

“Daddy wanted me to choke,” Bronx tattles to Patrick.

“Don’t tempt me,” Pete mutters darkly. 

Patrick kisses him loudly on the cheek next. “And Daddy looks handsome too,” he says into Pete’s ear. He reaches out to take Bronx from Pete’s arms, and the kiddo is grateful to get away from his bossy, impatient father, so he gloms onto Patrick like a koala (and of course, he kicks Pete as he goes). “Did you know your dad has the cutest butt in the entire city?” Patrick is saying. “It’s true. We are _so_ lucky. Three million butts in this city, and that right there is the best one.’

Bronx is cackling. Butts are almost as funny as running through the apartment naked. “Thirty twenty ba-million _degrees_ of butts!” he laughs, because units of measurement are a little beyond him at this age.

“That’s right,” Patrick agrees. “C’mon, grumpy boys,” he says over his shoulder to Pete, and leads the way into the elevator.

Pete’s thinking about the day they met. How different this is, watching Patrick wrinkle up his gorgeous suit with Bronx (who these days always smells a little bit like pee? No matter how often Pete gives him baths? It’s an unpleasant mystery) on his hip, chatting happily to the kid while they get into the elevator. The day they met, the first work party Pete came to, he and Bronx took the elevator up alone. He and Patrick swapped wedding rings and cover stories hurriedly in the hallway, did an awkward hug. Bronx was trying his hardest to be cool, showing off how good he was at jumping and telling Patrick about all his favorite toys. Pete’s mouth felt dry, his hands clammy. He never expected the Craigslist weirdo to be so _hot_ , and sweet, and good. Seriously, that ad was an even 50/50 they got murdered. The last thing Pete thought would happen is that he’d fall in love.

He hangs back a step or two on the way into the party, because he kind of can’t get enough of watching the way Bronx nestles against Patrick’s shoulder. Bronx is a little standoffish with most people, even his grandparents, probably because he can feel how prickly and defended Pete is with, well, everyone. He’s never really seen his son snuggle easily with anyone other than him before. It’s a good-but-complicated feeling, warm and overwhelming and not unlike an allergic reaction. It makes Pete wish he and Bronx could have had a different life. It makes Pete so hugely glad they’ve got exactly the life they do have.

Patrick’s office is transformed into a nondenominational holiday wonderland. It’s bursting with garlands, ornaments, evergreens, and lights, and every surface is covered in alcohol. The entire ceiling has been hung with paper ornaments, snowflakes, and twinkle lights, and big chunks of glittering gold confetti dust everything, as if for these people it snows gold bullion. Hell, it probably does. It feels—magic. There’s nowhere Pete would rather be.

He catches up with his family as Patrick sets Bronx down, pointing out a little play area in the corner of the room where there’s a nativity scene and lots of nutcrackers and some stockings full of child-friendly activities. Iero and his little girls are sitting at a miniature table and cutting out snowflakes, and a few other random children are ransacking a gingerbread house. Bronx decides he’s shy all of a sudden, and superglues himself to Pete’s leg.

Patrick catches Pete’s hand in his and they look out over the overwhelming mass of people for a minute. Christmas music filters in over the massive, mixed-up sound of a hundred different conversations. “Brace yourself,” Patrick warns him. “I’m sure Joe has something awful planned. Think the opening scene of Carrie.”

“Remember a month ago, when I told you I loved you?” Pete blurts out. It’s not something he was planning on bringing up.

Patrick’s cheeks flush red. “Uh,” he says, which Pete knows means _yes, I remember being very overwhelmed_.

“All I’m saying is, it was true then. And it gets truer every day I know you.”

Patrick is the color of a radish now. A rambutan. Verging on eggplant. “Um!” he manages.

“I’m just saying,” Pete says, because god it’s fun to make Patrick blush. “You ever want to put that ring on your finger again? I’m your guy. You just let me know.”

A fluorescent eggplant. Patrick’s discomfort is the cutest, most satisfying thing in the world.

“Or! If you want to move into my tiny apartment in Wicker Park. If that bougie condo is just too big for you. Let’s cohabitate, baby.”

It dawns on Patrick then. His blush turns into a relieved scowl. “You’re doing the thing. You’re overwhelming me on purpose.”

“I would never! I just want you to tell me every thought you’ve ever had. And every secret. And make a big dramatic commitment to me right here, and now, in front of everyone—” Pete starts lowering to one knee, just to make him mad. Bronx relocates to Patrick’s more stationary leg with an implacable frown.

“Oh my god, _stop_ ,” Patrick groans, yanking Pete upright, but he’s laughing. “Careful, Wentz, ‘cause I might. Don’t bluff with Tauruses. We’re very stubborn.”

Pete hesitates a moment, because usually a sweet, silly, incriminating moment like this is when one of Patrick’s horrible coworkers would descend and ruin everything. But the other shoe doesn’t drop. They just grin at each other, stupid and happy. Somewhere in this room is Andy Hurley, being ominous. Somewhere is Joe Trohman, scheming. And somewhere Patrick’s boss is probably sexually harassing someone defenseless. But for now it’s just the three of them, Pete-and-Bronx-plus-Patrick. Pete doesn’t want to jinx it, but he thinks he’s found his luck. He thinks they’ve figured out how to be honest, real, and happy.

At least until Bronx tugs so hard on Pete’s pant leg his jeans nearly come off. “My tummy hurts when you don’t pay ‘tention to me, Daddy,” he pouts. The edge of wail is back in his voice. This is what it’s like to be blackmailed by a four year old.

Honestly, he prefers it to being blackmailed by law interns.

“Well we can’t have that,” says Patrick. “C’mon, buddy. Let’s find you some snacks. You—don’t go anywhere,” he says to Pete. “No, wait. Go find some mistletoe and wait under it. We’ll find you.”

Pete does as he’s told. And by the time Joe finds them, bafflingly with a date on his arm, as if the greatest insult to Patrick is replacing him as the focal point of Joe’s emotional life—and then Andy, and then Bebe, like the sea turning to blood followed by a rain of frogs followed by a horde of locusts—they’re too late. There’s nothing to ruin. Everything is already perfect. 

_the end_

_epilogue 2.0:_

If Joe has a nefarious scheme for the night, they never get to see it unfold. Turns out the reason Bronx’s tummy hurts is not, in fact, because his dad isn’t paying attention to him. They deduce this shortly after Bronx ralphs a prodigious amount of salmon rolls, olives, and salami all over Joe’s Berluti derbies. 

Joe stands there, stunned, vomit soaking into his soaks, bile dripping from his pant legs, his date recoiling from him in equal parts horror and desire to preserve her own Loboutins. “He just—my shoes— _Stump_ —”

“Is my kid real enough for you now, Trohman?” Patrick doesn’t quite stop himself from saying. He squats down beside Bronx, who is sickly-pale and so sweaty his blond hair is plastered in little curls to his forehead. He smells about as bad as you’d expect, but instead of being grossed out, all Patrick feels is concern. Bronx throws his arms around Patrick’s neck, adding snot and tears to the general foulness on his face as he begins to cry. (Okay, all Patrick feels is concern and a _little_ grossed out.)

“I want my daddy,” Bronx weeps, burying his face into Patrick’s shoulder. Joe is too distracted by the puddle of steaming chunks he’s standing in to even pounce on it. Patrick hands Bronx off to Pete, mentally throws his sweater in a trash incinerator, and they leave the party early without regret. 

If you think being in the splash zone for an acute episode of toddler vomming would be a mood-killer, well, you’ve clearly never been a parent. Parenting, Patrick is quickly learning, is mostly a series of gross, inconvenient, and/or undignified events that you feel somehow honored to be included in. They get home, get Bronx tucked in with a Frog and Toad bedtime story and a dose of Motrin, and shuck off Patrick’s vomit-y clothes. And then Pete turns to him, eyebrows arched, and says, “So now that I’ve got you half-naked…”

“Ooh baby, throw up a little on my pants and I’ll take those off too,” Patrick jokes. Really, it shouldn’t work as a pick-up line. But it does. 

Pete peels his shirt over his head and tosses it on top of Patrick’s in the bathroom laundry hamper. By the combined glow of the nightlight and the frosted cube bathroom window, every muscle and curve on Pete’s torso is cast in silver-gold relief. His ribs pool with shadows like bruises, his chest smooth and broad, his shoulders knifing into collarbone crags, bisected by the necklace of thorns he can never remove. It takes Patrick’s breath away. He hopes it always does. Pete steps closer, teasing Patrick with an almost-kiss. They are almost the exact same height, so when Patrick’s dick grows hard, he has the pleasure of feeling Pete’s press back against him. His breath gets shallow and fast, his hands skimming the velvet cool of Pete’s skin, his mouth aching for the pressure of Pete’s kiss. Then Pete lifts him by the hips and pushes him roughly onto the bathroom counter. Patrick can’t take it anymore: his hand wraps around the back of Pete’s neck, his thumb hooking Pete’s jawline, and then there is only Pete’s lips on his, Pete’s tongue licking into Patrick’s mouth, Pete’s teeth nicking Patrick’s soft skin. Patrick moans his relief.

“Daddy? What’s that noise?” Bronx calls through the wall, small and cranky.

Pete covers Patrick’s mouth with his hand—disapproving, Patrick bites it—and yells back, “Just the wind, buddy. Go back to sleep.”

“It sounded like _you_ were making that noise,” Bronx accuses.

Patrick bites Pete’s hand harder. Pete flashes laughing, warning eyes at him. “Must be the neighbors. Go back to sleep.”

They pause, neither daring to do more than exhale, until it seems Bronx has accepted this rhetoric and closed his eyes once more. “You’re going to get us in trouble,” Pete whispers to Patrick, his eyes still fiery.

“ _Me_? You’re the one who—” But Patrick doesn’t get to finish his protest, because Pete’s doing it again, kissing him so hard, steady, and sure that he thinks he’s going to come apart. Pete presses his hips, heat, and hardness against Patrick, and the angle he strikes with Patrick on the counter is so fucking sweet. Patrick can’t stand another second with all these ridiculous, unnecessary pants on. 

“Off,” Patrick growls between kisses, snaking his hand between them to work at the button of Pete’s black jeans. He’s a little distracted by his own hand for a moment, the friction it provides against his swollen cock pooling in his belly like molten gold, but then Pete’s pants yield and Pete’s dick springs into his hand and Patrick has far better things to be distracted about.

“Never wear underwear, do you?” Patrick asks, fitting his hand around the hot thickness of Pete and thrusting his hips forward so his dick rocks against Pete’s. He means to go slow, but when he starts moving his hand up and down Pete’s shaft, he finds the head wet already. It makes his moan buzz against his throat again, makes his own dick strain harder. Pete is so fucking hot, sometimes Patrick thinks he could get off without Pete touching him at all. 

“Not when I’m with you. Can’t afford to slow things down,” Pete murmurs back. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lips glistening in the low light, his pants pooled around his ankles. He rolls his hips with the motion of Patrick’s hand, his pre-come blotting onto Patrick’s dark grey slacks beautifully, and lets out a groan of his own. They are totally getting scolded by the child if they don’t keep it down, Patrick knows from cringey experience, but god it feels too good to do anything but this.

Until Pete pants out, “Turn around and face the mirror, so I can fuck you while we both watch.”

Two-point-five seconds later Patrick’s naked except for his socks. He slips off the counter so Pete can turn him around and bend him over it. He braces, gripping the edge of the countertop so hard the bones in his hands ache, while Pete pulls lube and a condom from the top of the medicine cabinet where Bronx can’t reach. (There may or may not have been a lube-as-toothpaste near miss that never needs to be repeated, or spoken of.) Pete’s fingers enter him first, a courtesy Patrick feels impatient with, at least til the thrust of Pete’s fingers obliterates all other feelings. 

“Open your eyes,” Pete entreats, kissing Patrick’s neck impressionistically, clumsy and wet and gorgeous. His dick keeps sliding against Patrick’s ass, hot and thick, and Pete’s fingers are _not_ enough. Patrick’s eyes open and lock onto the reflection of Pete’s, and Pete lets out a little gasp at the sudden intensity of it.

“Want to see the look on your face when you come in me,” Patrick says.

“Not before I watch you come,” says Pete.

“So it’s a race, then?” Patrick grins, all teeth in the mirror. He loves the almost pained shape Pete’s face takes when he’s excited. Now that a challenge has been issued, Pete’s serious, jaw and brow set, no trace of his playful smirk remaining. Pete retracts his fingers slowly, teasing Patrick’s entrance, and replaces them with the head of his dick before Patrick’s processed the hungry ache of the withdrawal. With a few soft strokes, Pete pushes all the way inside him. Patrick blooms with sensation and heat, impossibly full, arching his hips and pressing away from the counter to push back onto Pete. It feels so good he’ll die of it, feels so good there’s no way he can last, feels so good there’s no way he can be _quiet_ for this—

Then Pete’s hips start to move in earnest. His fingernails sting where they bite into Patrick’s sides. Patrick holds onto the countertop, Pete holds onto him, and they move almost as one: hot, wanting, _getting_ in a way that can’t be faked. Patrick goes ahead and loses himself in this, because he knows it’s real.

By the time they crest that rippling, gilded edge of pleasure as huge as pain, that total eclipse of wrenching, yielding sensation, that tidal wave of longing-and- _release_ , mirrored like a closed circuit between two sets of eyes, it’s impossible to say anymore who came first. It’s impossible to say if they’re even two separate entities and not just one fused, bruised thing, raw with feeling, smashed open with love. Patrick lets his forehead kiss the countertop and Pete rests his head on Patrick’s back and they gasp together, even their lungs working two-as-one. 

“Who won?” Pete asks, or maybe it’s Patrick. Either way they both start laughing and begin to disentangle their limbs carefully, trying too late to be quiet. 

“I think we both did,” says Patrick. He glides his fingertips along Pete’s side, presses a kiss to the corner of his shoulder blade, and moves past him to clean himself up. Together, they pad on silent feet across moonlit bath tiles and into Pete’s small, crowded bedroom. Patrick flops into bed first and draws Pete after him, onto sheets that are winter-cold against too-full skin that burns with lucid memories of Pete. Pete kisses his way down from Patrick’s lips to chin to throat to chest, then lays his head over Patrick’s heartbeat.

It’s all so easy, since they stopped pretending. 

He used to think _simple_ meant no complications, no attachments. Used to think a web of lies was easier to manage than human contact. He forgot, or else never knew, how straightforward love is. How Pete’s head on his chest, or Bronx’s perpetually sticky hand in his, is actually the easiest thing in the world.

Pete sighs, the exhalation somehow pressing their bodies even closer. Patrick trails his fingers down Pete’s back, letting his hand rest at the base on his spine. Now that Patrick knows what this moment feels like, he’ll never be able to live without it. It’s about taking that chance—risking that all love can be lost, and choosing to believe that it can also be kept.

Of course it’s a crapshoot. Of course there are no guarantees. But there’s Bronx across the hall, and Pete’s head on his chest, listening to Patrick’s love pump like blood through the cathedral of his ribcage. Yeah, it’s a risk. For the first time in his life, Patrick is okay with that.

_the end… this time for real_


End file.
